


Three Turns Should Do It

by doshu



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Horcruxes, M/M, POV Tom Riddle, Pureblood Politics (Harry Potter), Sane Tom Riddle, Slash, Slow Build, Time Travel, Tom Riddle-centric, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-12 10:20:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 145,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29258838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doshu/pseuds/doshu
Summary: When Harry tried to cast a Patronus to save himself, Sirius, and Hermione from hundreds of Dementors, he created a paradox. And Time didn't like that.Tom Riddle—Voldemort—was an irredeemable monster, according to the history that was written by the victors of the First Wizarding War. Before that history was written, Tom was a lonely boy who just wanted to behappy. Fate decided to make him earn it.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Comments: 115
Kudos: 371





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A few notes, in no particular order _(notes updated 2/22/2021)_ :
> 
>  **1.** I have approached this from the perspective that people are not ‘born evil,’ and that once upon a time Tom Riddle was a child. Interactions taken from canon are told from this angle.  
>  **2.** This story spans some periods of history where horrible things happened. While I will not be going into gruesome and graphic detail over these events, they will be represented in a factual way. This includes, but is not limited to, World War II.  
>  **3.** For those of you who are here for the pairing, we are starting with an eleven year old Tom Riddle, and he will be going to Hogwarts. Expect 3-4 chapters per school year. No pairing will happen until it is age appropriate, though we will be following along as the two boys grow up and get to know each other. Things will be organic.  
>  **4.** With the exception of the very first scene, this will be entirely told from Tom’s POV.  
>  **5.** There are some characters who will come across unfavourably, due to the perspective. While I’m not opposed to ‘bashing,’ I will also try to represent those characters in similar ways to how they come across in canon. And please, go back and reread those Dumbledore & Tom Riddle Pensieve scenes in canon, putting yourself in Tom’s shoes. I dare you.  
>  **6.** AU/Canon-Divergence as of the end of Prisoner of Azkaban. Sort of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: The opening scene in this chapter is an except from _Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban_ , Chapter 21.

> He could hear yelping in the distance. That meant the Dementors were closing in on Sirius… He and Hermione would be running to him any moment…
> 
> Harry stared out toward the lake, his heart doing a kind of drumroll in his chest… Whoever had sent that Patronus would be appearing at any moment…
> 
> For a fraction of a second he stood, irresolute, in front of Hagrid’s door. You must not be seen. But he didn’t want to be seen. He wanted to do the seeing… He had to know… 
> 
> And there were the Dementors. They were emerging out of the darkness from every direction, gliding around the edges of the lake… They were moving away from where Harry stood, to the opposite bank… He wouldn’t have to get near them… 
> 
> Harry began to run. He had no thought in his head except his father… If it was him… if it really was him… he had to know, had to find out… 
> 
> The lake was coming nearer and nearer, but there was no sign of anybody. On the opposite bank, he could see tiny glimmers of silver — his own attempts at a Patronus —
> 
> There was a bush at the very edge of the water. Harry threw himself behind it, peering desperately through the leaves. On the opposite bank, the glimmers of silver were suddenly extinguished. A terrified excitement shot through him — any moment now —
> 
> “Come on!” he muttered, staring about. “Where are you? Dad, come on —”
> 
> But no one came. Harry raised his head to look at the circle of Dementors across the lake. One of them was lowering its hood. It was time for the rescuer to appear — but no one was coming to help this time —
> 
> And then it hit him — he understood. He hadn’t seen his father he had seen himself — Harry flung himself out from behind the bush and pulled out his wand.
> 
> “EXPECTO PATRONUM! ” he yelled.

  
In that instant he saw the Harry on the opposite bank of the lake look up in his direction. In the moments that followed a blinding white light erupted around him, and at first he was filled with relief, blinking his eyes to let the adjust to see the large silvery creature, eager to watch it charge down the Dementors that were converging on him, Sirius, and Hermione. But rather than the light coming into focus it stayed bright and blinding and he felt a pressure building around him, squeezing him, agony spreading in his skull and under his skin, while a ringing in his ears could have been his scream except that he’d never heard a scream so _loud_. . .

Time stretched, and then after an eternity, like a rubber band snapping back it seemed to stop. Harry felt like he was floating, his thoughts scattered. Was he in the lake? He didn’t feel wet, but he also didn’t feel . . . his body. He was entirely numb, and everything was still white.

And so, Harry continued to drift.

* * *

Tom awoke early, only needing a few seconds to shake off the lingering tendrils of sleep before the events of the previous day flooded his mind. A small, slow smile curled his lips and he reached under his pillow, feeling his fingers close on the heavy parchment that was stowed away there. Today he’d be off to see other _wizards_ , and maybe see them doing _magic_ ; today was the first day that he’d step into the world that he deserved, where he’d have the chance to be something more than a poor orphan.

Listening to the coughs and sniffles of Eric and Billy filtering through the thin walls he rose, dressing in his best clean tunic—only a small stain, and it was hidden along a hem anyhow—and tucking the money pouch that the Dumbledore man had given him inside a trouser pocket along with his letter. As he grabbed his shoes from under his cot his eyes passed over his wardrobe and he paused, worrying at his lower lip. No. Today was a day for adventure, exploration, and discoveries. There was plenty of time to relinquish his treasures before September. Shoes on, he made his way downstairs to face the day.

A very tired-looking Martha was already sitting in the kitchen when he arrived. “Oh, hello Tom,” she greeted through a yawn. “Would you be a dear and put the water on?”

A few minutes later he was hauling the heavy filled pot onto the cooker and going through the practiced motions of making tea and oatmeal for the masses, while the sounds of children stirring came from above.

There was noise from down the hall and Mrs Cole bustled in, giving Tom a hard look before turning away. “Oh Martha, you were up last night? How are the boys?” 

From where Tom was standing he could see Martha’s face pull into a frown, a crease forming between her brows. “Not well, Mrs Cole, not well. They didn’t manage to sleep until half two, and even then they were waking each other up every twenty minutes. They’re finally sleeping better now, but it’s not long before the rest of the building wakes up and rouses them again.”

“Hmm. That reminds me, it’s been some time since the girls have been up to visit their friends at Stockwell. We can send them over today to keep things a bit quieter around here, and I can put the boys to work outside fixing the gate and tidying up. That should give those two a chance to rest, not to mention yourself!”

Martha seemed to hum in assent, and the conversation fell into a lull. Wanting to avoid capturing Mrs Cole’s attention Tom snapped back to work, pulling crockery out of the cupboard and preparing the food station for the morning meal.

As he was wiping down the long dining tables while waiting for the water to boil, he saw Mrs Cole lean to look through the doorway toward him in the dining hall. “Tom, you need to go purchase your school things today, you said? You’ll walk with the girls to Stockwell this morning, don’t leave without them.” Without waiting for a response her head vanished into the kitchen once more.

Tom didn’t pause his work though he did feel his jaw clench in irritation. He could go anywhere he liked in London, at least he had before, with no concern at all from the matron. But the girls couldn’t handle themselves, even when they travelled in a pack? He mentally scoffed. Of course they could. 

But then again he had no idea what time the shops in Diagon Alley opened, so perhaps he’d be best off waiting before making his way there anyhow. Maybe if they annoyed him enough he could . . . convince them to walk most of the way on their own.

As he finished up his cleaning work he heard footsteps and looked up to see both women leaving the kitchen and heading down the hall in the direction of Mrs Cole’s office. He only caught a snippet of their conversation, which had clearly moved along from the orphanage’s residents to something that eluded Tom entirely. “—published for well over a decade, I don’t see why they’re putting up such a fuss now!” and “Yes, well they’re talking about protests next, though it’ll be up near St. Paul’s so thankfully not too near—” and then a door shut, and there was silence once more.

Now that he had to wait for the girls and couldn’t escape immediately he returned to his room, shutting the door and opening his wardrobe. In the bottom, tucked behind his dirty clothes, he ran a finger over his real treasures. Yes, that Dumbledore man had found his trinkets, the toys and baubles that he took from the other children because if he couldn’t get nice gifts from prospective parents then they shouldn’t either, and it wasn’t _fair_ that they could play with the toys right in front of him and then tease him for not having any. But _these_. . . . He’d read over the letter multiple times and though it made no mention of it he was sure he’d have to purchase a trunk to store everything he was bringing to the school. Even after he returned the trinkets to those ungrateful children—who probably hadn’t even noticed their absence—he would be keeping the books that he’d brought home from the Library, the books that he’d saved from an existence of sitting dusty on shelves. And Dumbledore hadn’t said anything about books.

Tom passed the next handful of hours sitting in the window reading, occasionally pausing to listen to the sounds from adjacent rooms to determine who was up and about. Finally, when it was nearing nine he tucked his treasures away again and went downstairs to grab some of the oatmeal sludge that was at the base of the pot, eating it quickly before making his way to the yard. Once outside, it didn’t take long to locate the girls.

“Tom,” Ann started in on him as soon as their group had emerged from the yard, “who are _you_ going to see at Stockwell. Everyone knows that you don’t have any friends.”

There were some titters from the group and he gave her a flat stare, before turning away a few seconds later, not deigning to respond.

“What’s wrong, Tom,” called Maggie. “You didn’t want to spend the day with the boys?”

He caught himself before he uttered a sigh, knowing it would only encourage them. He clenched his jaw.

“I heard that Tom asked Mrs Cole to be transferred to Brixton a few years ago,” continued Maggie in a stage whisper, which was followed by a peal of laughter from someone.

Tom rolled his eyes; Brixton was a girls’ orphanage two districts over from Vauxhall, where Wool’s was. Or at least, it had been. He casually turned his head and looked at Amy, smirking a little as they made eye contact and she flinched.

Amy cleared her throat. “Brixton closed two years ago. And he didn’t ask Mrs Cole that,” she said, her voice soft. She looked at her feet.

“Oh, all right then. Southwark, was it?” Maggie couldn’t seem to take a hint.

Tom could see Amy’s hands twitching, and she looked up nervously toward him, then leaned over to whisper something into Ann’s ear. He shrugged and turned his attention forward again, leading the group south through the streets of Lambeth, past the grotty homes and workhouses.

The walk only took about a quarter of an hour, and by the time they arrived at the large estate-turned-orphanage the girls had tired of their entertainment at his expense and had turned to their own conversations, deliberately excluding him. Which was fine in his view. Without bothering to wish them farewell he spun on his heel and promptly left, heading back north toward Vauxhall Bridge, eager to enjoy the day.

Once he’d crossed the river and his feet had taken him to Westminster he started paying a bit closer attention to his surroundings; it wasn’t long before he’d navigated the narrow streets to Charing Cross Road, walking along the squashed shops to find the Leaky Cauldron. He was used to ignoring oblivious adults though, so despite the fact that the men and women nearby were walking right by the pub without seeming to notice it Tom spotted it on his first pass and, pulse ticking a bit faster, pushed inside.

It was fairly dark inside, a bit of a smoky smell in the air and a grim atmosphere. Looking around and getting his bearings, he saw a group of three men clustered around a small table in the corner, a woman standing up at the bar, and there was also a man behind the bar who had looked up as he’d entered and was giving him a smile and a wave.

Giving a last look around at the customers—who were wearing long robes—Tom approached the bar. 

“Good morning young man! What can I do for you today?” the man greeted him warmly. He looked to be about Mrs Cole’s age, with deep crow’s feet next to large brown eyes.

Tom gave his most charming smile. “Good morning, sir. Would you happen to know where I can find a Tom? I’m told he’s the barman here.”

“Aye, that’s me,” the man replied with a grin. “Need help getting into the alley today, or can I help you with something else?”

“Just the alley sir, thank you.”

As the man rounded the bar Tom looked down at the newspaper that was folded on the counter top. _GRINDELWALD SPOTTED IN GERMANY—THE TERROR CONTINUES_ , called the headline, above a large image of two men. A _moving_ image of two men speaking.

Seeing that the older Tom was walking toward the back of the pub toward a small courtyard he hastened to follow, and watched as the barman tapped a very specific brick with his wand, revealing an archway that opened up to a bright street. As his eyes widened in wonder he just remembered to look back and thank the man, before striding forward.

He wasn’t sure how long he stood there at the top of the alley looking out over the odd-looking buildings, with colourful posters for products he’d never imagined in the windows and strangely-dressed people milling about, and what struck him over anything else at first was how clean it seemed. The sky was blue, the air tasted clean. He knew that the workhouses and factories of the city were not far away, churning black smoke and stench into the air, and yet he felt like he was in another world entirely.

Gathering his thoughts, he stepped forward, casting his eyes over the names of the shops as his hand felt for the weight of the coin purse in his pocket. Dumbledore had said he’d need too buy some of his things second-hand, which was all well and good in theory, but he had no understanding of the strange coins he was given. Maybe he should have asked Tom from the pub for directions? He hated asking for help.

After a bit of a curve the alley straightened out and he saw a looming marble structure with _GRINGOTTS BANK_ engraved on the lintel above a pair of bronze doors. That would certainly be a place to start.

It didn’t take long to see one of the bank tellers; the queue passed rather quickly, and was short compared to the length of stanchions were were lining the large marble hall. He had also definitely never seen a . . . person . . . like the individuals who seemed to work at this bank, but thought he masked his thoughts well enough.

“Good morning, sir,” Tom greeted the person behind the counter when he approached. “I’m a new student at Hogwarts, and was given money from the student fund, but I need to exchange some of it into regular money. Muggle money, I mean,” he corrected himself. He felt a bit flustered facing this person’s narrow stare.

“How much are you exchanging today?”

“How does the money here work? I was given a pouch of what looks like gold, and some other coins.”

The teller’s eyes seemed to narrow further, and he suddenly lifted a hand in the air, snapping two fingers and plucking a small card from the air where it appeared. Tom was handed the card.

> 1 Gold Galleon = 17 Silver Sickles  
> 1 Silver Sickle = 29 Bronze Knuts
> 
> Today’s Conversion: Britain  
> 1 Gold Galleon = 2 Crowns

Tom blinked a few times. That would take a bit of getting used to. He frowned, then looked up again. “I’d like two shillings, please,” he requested. That would be more than enough to take the Underground up to King’s Cross in September if his things ended up being too cumbersome to walk with, and he should have plenty leftover as well for the train back after summer term.

In short order he had his muggle coins and some additional sickles and knuts, the pouch tucked away once more. He was about to step away from the counter when a thought occurred to him. “How often does the exchange rate fluctuate?”

The teller’s eyebrows rose. “The card will update if it changes. If that is all?”

Tom nodded once. “Yes it is, thank you.” And he stepped away.

10 shillings to the galleon. He’d looked through the coins the previous night and counted them out, and was fairly certain he had approximately five galleons-worth of coins, though it was hard to say as some amount of it was in sickles and knuts. That meant two and a half pounds sterling. He’d never seen so much money before.

Outside in the daylight he wandered down Diagon Alley, taking in the sights, and scanning his eyes over the different shop offerings. He wasn’t sure how thrifty he’d need to be, and didn’t want to run out of coin early. He did step briefly into Flourish and Blotts, unable to resist the gleaming window full of large tomes but just as quickly stepped back out after he saw some of the prices on display. He would need to be careful.

Once Tom finished with his initial assessment of Diagon he turned down Knockturn Alley and saw grimy cobblestones and storefronts, a dark gloom hanging over the alley. He instinctively walked with a bit more purpose, avoiding eye contact with the denizens; he knew how to walk when he was alone out in the streets of Lambeth, and that was how he carried himself here.

The better part of an hour later he had returned to the middle stretch of Diagon with a plan. He had come across some shops on Knockturn that appeared, at least from the outside, to sell the same types of items as the shops on Diagon, and based on the condition of the street he was certain they’d be more affordable to him as well.

Ollivanders was certainly the first stop on the list. A wand was sure to be the most important item of any on the school list, and it was the only wand shop he’d come across. Arriving at the shop he stepped inside, hearing a bell tinkle somewhere inside and he waited, watching dust motes drift in the sunlight.

“Good morning,” called a man’s voice from somewhere behind some shelves. As the speaker emerged Tom saw a tall man with pale eyes and a solemn expression. “Your wand arm?” he asked, snapping out a tape measure.

Tom stuck out his right arm, watching raptly as the tape measure flicked around. He hardly noticed the man disappear behind the shelves while the tape measure continued to do its job, but the man returned after a minute holding a stack of narrow boxes. 

“Any of my wands in your family, young man?” he asked, as he pulled a wand out of the top box and handed it to Tom.

Tom grasped it, and while he was still processing the question the man—presumably Ollivander himself, if he was asking about ‘his’ wands—snatched it away again. “I’m not certain. I’m sure my father was a wizard, but I don’t know where he got his wand.”

Ollivander hummed. “Perhaps I can help you then. What is your name? The name of your father?” Another wand was in Tom’s hand at this point and it tingled unpleasantly before it was taken away, the man mumbling, “Oh no, definitely not cypress.”

“My name is Tom Riddle. My father had the same.” He was curious about this wand business. Was he supposed to be doing something? He was hardly being given a chance to prove himself, only touching each wand for mere seconds.

“Perhaps the larch,” was muttered as another wand was pressed into his hands. This one just twitched before it was reclaimed by Ollivander, who continued on to say, “I’m sorry to say that I have not sold a wand to any Mr. Riddle. A pity, certainly, but don’t you fret. We will find your wand today.”

Tom frowned, and his frown deepened as they tried wand after wand for at least twenty minutes. Finally a wand made of a pale wood was handed over and it washed a warm sensation over him, and seemed to buzz happily in his hand. He was further disappointed when Ollivander took the wand back, though the man seemed to be humming happily. A longer wand of wood so pale it looked white was tried next and where the previous wand had buzzed happily, this filled him with a sense of triumph, of strength, as bright white lights erupted from the end and further illuminated the shop. He found himself smiling, trying to hold onto that wonderful feeling that was fading now, as Ollivander moved aside the tower of boxes.

“Quite excellent. Thirteen-and-a-half inches, yew, robust, with a phoenix feather core. This here is a powerful wand, and will help you achieve great things.” He placed the wand back in the box and placed it on the counter in front of Tom. “That will be one galleon and three sickles.”

Tom left the shop feeling some eagerness now that he had his wand, but also apprehension. With that expense he didn’t even entertain the thought of re-entering Flourish and Blotts and made his way instead to the second hand book shop for his course texts, followed by the junk shop for equipment like a cauldron, telescope, and scales. 

After checking some prices on Diagon he ventured back down Knockturn for supplies from Mulpepper’s Apothecary, and stopped in at Wizarding Supplies feeling a hint of exhaustion creeping up on him. He wasn’t sure if it was from carrying the rapidly-accumulating purchases around, or if he was overwhelmed by the expenditures of the day, but it was probably a bit of both.

As he wandered the aisles he mentally calculated his remaining purchases against the coins he had left in his pouch. It was quite a bit lighter than it had been in the morning, and he still needed clothing, stationery, and a trunk. He frowned at the selection of quills, not seeing a dip pen or even fountain pen in sight, and settled for replenishing his ink supply as he had a serviceable enough dip pen in his room. He frowned some more upon learning that he’d need to buy a supply of parchment for assignments; doing some mental calculations he decided to hold off on purchasing a notebook for his own class notes, as he was certain he could find one for a few pence at a stationer’s in muggle London.

This shop did have a selection of trunks, chests, and bags, so after some wrangling with his willpower he decided on a nice enough second-hand trunk with a built-in locking charm, and he was able to convince the store manager to put a lightening charm on it that would last a couple of hours, enough to at least get him back to Wool’s.

His last stop was the second hand robe shop, and by the time he reached that part of his day he realized that he’d be able to finish off his supply list—only just. With only a few knuts, and his two shillings, in the bottom of his coin purse he made his way back down the alley toward the Leaky Cauldron, glancing at the sky to see that the sun was no longer visible above, and gathering it was probably mid-afternoon.

It dawned on him as he was making his way toward the Thames that he hadn’t seen many more than a handful of children in the alleys that day. Hadn’t more children his age received their Hogwarts letters? And presumably those who were returning for upper years would have new books to buy, new robes as they outgrew their old ones. These thoughts accompanied him as he walked toward Lambeth bridge and deciding he had time to waste before returning to Wools, he detoured north toward the embankment.

The water was a bit murky today but he set his trunk down and sat on it, tasting the heavy air and thinking. Pulling out the little card from Gringotts he considered some maths. He wasn’t completely certain, but if he could make money in some way—find it, earn it, whatever—he might be better off exchanging it . . . maybe? Knuts were worth just a hair less than pence, but it was probably easier to get money in the muggle world, as long as he stayed away from people like Dumbledore. But if there were more people like _him_ who looked at Tom with distrust and suspicion with magic to help them, it would probably be more trouble than it was worth to make wizarding money, at least until legitimate ventures came up.

But once he learned magic. . . .

He ruminated on those thoughts for a little while longer before standing, stretching his legs, and making his way back southward. As he passed the workhouses he spared half a glance to the children his age who were crouched out front on the street, exchanging cigarette cards and playing with marbles. He’d kept his grades high enough in his schooling that he knew he would have had a place at Wool’s until he completed his School Certificate at sixteen, but a part of him had been waiting to see how long Mrs Cole would endure him until she sent him away to one of these institutions. Today, as a small boy came tumbling out of a doorway and directly into Tom’s legs on his way to his friends Tom didn’t even sneer, as the relief of knowing he was going to a better place soon was settled over him like a blanket.

He turned onto Vauxhall Road and spared a threepence for a journal that should serve him well, at least for his first year of school, and continued onto the slums of Vauxhall Gardens. As he approached the walled yard surrounding Wool’s he could hear the laughter and shrieks of his peers, and his jaw clenched on reflex. One more month.

* * *

  
August passed quickly, at least compared to other summers when Tom hadn’t had an escape on the horizon. Any spare time that he had was spent holed up in his room devouring his textbooks, attempting to cast the spells in his Charms and Transfiguration books, studying the directions and recipes in his Potions book, and even spending some time with his telescope on nights with clear skies.

He was elated when he cast his first _Lumos_ ; the soft white glow took him by surprise and he let out a burble of a laugh before he could contain it. The feeling of warmth, of power travelling through him toward his wand, the strength that it gave him, the sensation of magic . . . it was intoxicating. Addicting. His first successful casting took him three nights, but after that it was like a valve had been opened; he mastered _Reparo_ , next, and spent a whole evening methodically going over every inch of his second hand purchases, doing what he could to help them not look so used. The Locking and Unlocking Charms were next, as he had always enjoyed his privacy, and he tried a few of the presented transfigurations in his book though they took much more focus and attention than the charms had.

And beyond that he learned what he could of history. It was certainly a challenging subject, as there were so many references within the texts to events, places, or people that the authors seemingly assumed he would be familiar with, and which he wasn’t. He hoped the school had a decent library, since he wanted to learn everything that he’d missed out on due to being raised at the orphanage.

He did hear some teasing remarks as well as accidentally-on-purpose loud conversations among the other residents about his schooling; he wasn’t the only one to think that Dumbledore had been threatening him with an asylum stay, as that was the story that had spread around the building within hours of the man’s visit, and hadn’t abated. Fortunately Mrs Cole seemed to be eagerly anticipating the arrival of September as well, or at least that was the justification he gathered for the fact that she seemed to be in better spirits, and hardly assigned him any chores over the remaining weeks.

He’d delayed packing until the end of August, but finally when it was only twenty four hours until the train’s departure he carefully folded up his robes, checked the seal on his ink bottles, stacked his textbooks nicely, and arranged everything neatly in his trunk. He pulled his treasures out from the bottom of his wardrobe, running a hand gently along the surface of the books, and tucked them along with his school texts, and finally rose to pull the box of trinkets down from the shelf above. He pursed his lips.

Would Dumbledore really know? He scowled. Probably. He narrowed his eyes, then went to the window to look outside. He could see most of the children outside, splashing around in puddles playing some sort of game that they’d never let him join back when he had still tried to be their friend. Acting quickly and quietly he left his room and crept down the hall, opening the airing cupboard and considering, before closing the door again. He continued on to Billy’s room, knowing he was in the courtyard below, and slid inside to put the box in the corner of his room, far under the boy’s bed behind the collection of toys he had there. Smirking a little he returned to his room, feeling quite accomplished.

With the door shut behind him once more he swept his eyes over his room, deciding if he’d missed anything. His threadbare clothes would stay in the wardrobe; other than what he’d wear to the station in the morning he had no interest in being seen in his orphanage clothing. He’d already tucked away his dip pen along with his journal, and there was nothing else in here worth bringing. Except perhaps _that_.

He gave the offending item a harsh stare, his thoughts curdling unpleasantly. Apparently every person in the country had been issued a gas mask in July. He wasn’t sure if it came from Parliament, or the King, or the police constable who was always coming around, but one day Mrs Cole called everyone down to the dining hall and made sure she, Martha, and each of the children had one. It had seemed like a shockingly late action given the use of gases in the war some two decades prior, but then again, adults seemed to live in their own realities much of the time.

With a final scowl he picked up the mask from where it was hooked on the back of his chair and tossed it into his trunk. He wasn’t sure if there would be inspections at Hogwarts to make sure he had brought his, but he didn’t want to get into trouble for something that could be avoided easily enough.

The evening meal that night was a torturous affair. Through much of August he’d managed to avoid directly interacting with the others most of the time, but they seemed to all know that Tom would be departing the next morning as they were all there, pushing ahead of him in the queue to the food counter and leaving him with the dregs of stew and mere bread scraps. Eric and Billy’s chicken pox had finally settled so they were present, both loud and crass, making all sorts of claims about what sort of place Tom was being sent off too, and what they did to young boys there. Maggie wasn’t much better, and more than once Eric’s boisterousness was drowned out by an explosion of giggles from the girls’ end of the table.

At long last though he was excused from the meal and he retreated to the safety and relative quiet of his room, where he passed the night in a fitful sleep, both anxious and excited for the following day.

That night there was a large storm, which meant that in the morning the others were kept out of his way while they ran from leak to leak with buckets, put to work by a harried Mrs Cole. He delayed putting in an appearance so that he wouldn’t be put to work doing the same, so when it was nearing half nine he made his way downstairs with his trunk, stopping in front of the matron’s door and knocking.

“Come in!” called her voice from inside, and as he pushed the door open he saw her organizing paperwork that had been pulled out from a cabinet that rested against a wall, where he could see a line of water running from a stained part of the ceiling. She looked up and blinked a few times, then set the papers down. “Oh, Tom. You’re off then?”

He nodded. “Yes ma’am. I want to get to the station early.”

“Come with me then,” she ordered, pushing past him into the hall where she led the way to the kitchen.

He wasn’t sure what to think when she stopped at the larder, but when she turned back toward him she was pushing something wrapped in paper and twine into his hands. “Here, for the train.”

It was his turn to blink. He certainly hadn’t expected anything of the sort. Maybe Dumbledore had done something? Mrs Cole had never been this kind, not to him, and a roll or two—as he guessed by the size of the bundle—was certainly beyond the bare necessity of care that she usually provided. Given the lack of orders she’d given him over the past month, she might have even included a pad of butter.

“Thank you, Mrs Cole,” he offered, meeting her eyes briefly before flitting his gaze away when hers narrowed. After waiting a beat to see if she would say anything further her turned, making his way out of the building and onto the street, leaving the orphanage behind.

A week earlier he had gone on a walk around some of the stations and had examined the map of the Underground, planning his route. It took him a bit over ten minutes to make his way to Oval Station, as he paused a few times when his trunk started feeling cumbersome and heavy, and a few pence later he was on the Northern Line to King’s Cross, according to the signs. Sure enough it was a bit before half ten when he arrived, weaving his way through the queues and crowds to the wall where he’d been instructed to cross ‘through’ to the hidden platform. And when he did so, the gleaming scarlet train was a welcome sight.

He wasn’t sure if he should expect looks, stares from the families that were on Platform 9¾, those sending their children off. He had worn his best tunic, which he had repaired as best as he could with magic—though he was careful to leave that tunic out of his usual rotation so that the others at Wool’s didn’t question its condition. But despite the fact that he was dressed in drab grey that was out of place among the bright colours of the people around him, he felt mostly ignored.

In short order he found a compartment and pulled out his history text, feeling the least confident about the contents of that book as the names all sounded equally strange and the chapters were fairly jumbled. He was interrupted a few times by other students poking their heads in, before leaving when they saw the compartment was occupied. Finally, as the train’s whistle sounded the compartment door slid open for—hopefully—the last time as two girls who looked to be his age stepped in, trailed by a boy.

“Do you mind if we sit here?” asked one of the girls, sounding a bit out of breath. Sure enough her hair looked a bit wild, as if she’d run to catch the train.

Tom gave a small smile and gestured to the empty bench across from him. “You’re more than welcome,” he offered, closing his book but saving his spot with a finger.

The other girl stepped forward, looking more put-together than the other two, and she looked to be dressed in her school robes already. “Hilda Selwyn,” she greeted him, holding out a hand which he shook. “This here is Michael and Eleanor Ingram.” The boy had taken a seat at that point and gave a vague sort of wave, looking tired with dark circles under his eyes, while the girl was patting her plait in place, eyes bright as she smiled at him.

“First year too, are you?” Eleanor asked, the words tripping over themselves in a hurry to get out. “We’re all starting this year too. I feel like I’ve been waiting for Hogwarts _forever_ and now I almost can’t believe we’re finally almost there! So who are you then?”

“Tom Riddle.” Hilda didn’t show any visible outward reaction but as Michael slid his gaze out the window, eyelids drooping, Eleanor pursed her lips and appeared to be trying to recall something.

“Riddle, I’m not familiar with your family. But then no one really knows our dad,” here she bumped her shoulder against Michael’s, ignoring as he tutted in annoyance, “so that’s all right.” Here she suddenly shut her mouth, giving a sharp look over at Hilda, who seemed to be watching the messy girl carefully. She shook herself a bit and turned back to Tom. “Are you looking forward to any classes in particular?”

This conversation carried them through the first hour or so of the journey. Michael only appeared to briefly snap to awareness once the train set into motion, but fell into a nap just as quickly. Hilda seemed to warm to the conversation though she was certainly friendlier toward Eleanor than Tom, and Eleanor. . . . Well. She had enough energy for the four of them, and couldn’t be more different from her twin, but Tom found conversation easy enough once he worked through the lingering anti-social aura that Wool’s had impressed upon him.

A grown wizard pushing a snack trolley stopped by as they were exhausting that conversation topic and the girls immediately set upon him to purchase treats, while Tom pulled out the bundle from Mrs Cole. He had just finished undoing the twine knots when they sat back down and as he opened the brown paper to reveal the contents he stared.

“Is everything all right?” Hilda asked softly from next to him, and he startled.

“Yes,” he replied just as quietly, reeling. Tucked inside the paper, the fragrance of meat and spices tickling his senses, was a small hand-sized pie.

Conversation dwindled after they ate and Tom eventually returned to his book, while the girls carried on a conversation about people he didn’t know, and the other boy in the compartment slept, his head occasionally jerking as the swaying of the train on the tracks jostled him. The light was beginning to fade outside the window when he was distracted from his reading by sounds coming from the corridor, and after a tall shadow darkened the doorway the compartment door slid open.

“Selwyn,” greeted the visitor, a tall girl with an impressive sneer who appeared to be an upper-year. “Sitting with the riff-raff, are you? Whatever would your dear father say.”

Hilda had stopped her conversation with Eleanor mid-sentence when the door opened and looked up, chin out. “Raina, my parents aren’t here and neither are yours. No one is forcing you to talk to me.”

“On the contrary,” she responded, her lips twisting into a smirk as she removed her gaze from Hilda and looked at each of the others in the compartment. Tom noticed that Michael was awake now, though he seemed to be feigning sleep now. “I’m Head Girl this year, and I’m simply here to . . . _greet_ the new students.”

Indeed Tom could see that sitting upon her green-trimmed robes there was a shiny pin, placed high on her chest.

“I’m Yaxley. If you need a Head Boy or Girl this year, you three should go find Tully and bother him. I don’t want you to waste my time.” She turned back to Hilda, gave her small nod with a mockery of a smile, and then left.

The compartment sat in silence for half a minute before Eleanor spoke, her voice uncertain. “Hildy, Mum didn’t say—”

“Don’t worry about it,” the other girl interrupted. “I’m here to go to school, not play politics for our parents.”

That was the end of conversation. 


	2. Chapter 2

As the final daylight vanished Tom and the twins changed into their school robes, and when they pulled into the station he found himself in a large huddle of first years, all following a short, stocky man who was leading them toward the edge of an immense lake that appeared to glitter as it reflected the starry night above. And as the fleet of little boats carried them across he and the other students stared in awed silence at the majestic beauty of the castle they were approaching.

The castle. Dumbledore hadn’t said _anything_ about a _castle_.

And it was beautiful, like something out of a story full of medieval knights, and court duels. It was all turrets, and battlements, and he couldn’t even begin to imagine the history that was hidden away inside. The rest of the surroundings were a mere blur as the boats docked and the group ascended toward the great oak doors, but once the group ventured into the entrance hall his attention was drawn back upon hearing a familiar voice.

“Thank you, Mr Ogg. Good evening everyone, and welcome to Hogwarts.” Dumbledore. The man was standing in front of them wearing pale yellow robes, his long auburn hair tied back and his blue eyes twinkling as he looked across their crowd. “Please follow me as we make our way to the Great Hall, where you will be sorted into the house that will become your family for the next seven years.

“Now, it is not anything to be frightened of—” he gave a patient look toward where a boy and a girl where whispering “—and regardless of which house you are sorted into, you will have the opportunity to excel in your studies and earn points toward the house cup. Each house has produced some truly exceptional witches and wizards, and though your professors may have fond memories of our own youths attending Hogwarts as students, all houses are equal in our eyes.” There were some whispers at that, and Tom’s eyes narrowed. That was an oddly deliberate claim for the professor to make.

The small speech had taken them across the entrance hall through to a small stone chamber and next to a large door, beyond which could be heard the muffled rumble of many voices. Suddenly a hush fell over the adjacent room and Dumbledore opened the door and led them through, revealing a large hall full of hundreds of faces sitting at four long tables, perpendicular to a raised long table where a dozen or so professors were all sitting. Above the ceiling appeared identical to the night sky they had passed under outside on their way across the lake, so realistic that he could almost feel the night air on his cheek.

Their group had stretched into a line as they traversed the Great Hall and they came to a stop at the front of the room as a ratty patch-covered hat sitting on a stool started to sing.

Tom stared.

He missed the first verse, as he was so bewildered at the spectacle. Was everything always this strange in the magical world? Were grown wizards and witches actually mad? Once his mind caught up with his ears he heard the end of a verse describing the house founders, and started thinking, worrying his lip as he considered. It sounded as though each house valued different traits, and each one seemed to have its merits, but what decided which he was best suited to, and what if he didn’t agree with that assessment?

After the song ended and the occupants of the hall burst into applause, Dumbledore unfurled a long piece of parchment and started calling names. “Abbott, Martha” was called out and as a rosy-cheeked blonde sat on the stool in front of the school with the hat placed on her head, the hat called out “HUFFLEPUFF!” and she smiled and jogged down toward a table that sat underneath yellow banners.

A talking hat. Well.

He determined rather quickly that the process was moving along alphabetically, and he also observed that some students only seemed to make contact with the hat for an instant before their fate was decided, while others seemed to be sat on the stool for entire minutes. “Flint, Carus,” seemed to be a case of the latter, as he was sat there with his entire face contorted into a painful-looking frown for nearing five minutes until the hat finally announced Ravenclaw, though by the time it did some small pockets of conversation had broken out around the hall.

There also seemed to be some unspoken politics happening when the students were sorted; he wasn’t sure if it was due to the family names, or the houses, or a combination of both, however the applause that came after every person’s turn was certainly more enthusiastic for some than others. 

Finally as “Reed, Eliza,” stepped off toward Ravenclaw’s table, Dumbledore looked toward him and called out, “Riddle, Tom.” He stepped forward, feeling all eyes on him. As he sat down he saw the blue eyes slightly narrowed, as though full of suspicion, then the hat fell over his eyes and all went dark.

“Oh my, what a sharp mind you have!” said a small voice, and Tom wasn’t sure if it was in his ear or within his mind. “A thirst for knowledge, certainly, but also an insatiable hunger for achievement.”

He had the sensation of humming, and then the voice spoke again. “Well, there is certainly wit aplenty in this mind here, and Ravenclaw would help you temper that with wisdom to guide you through your lifelong learning. On the other hand, Slytherin will help you focus your ambition, and you’d find friends there to help you reach your goals.”

There was a pause, while the hat seemed to consider, and Tom thought to himself, _I want to be happy. I want to matter_. 

“The path to happiness is one of the most challenging of all, but cunning will get you there. SLYTHERIN!”

The applause was subdued, and as he approached the near end of the Slytherin table he caught some dismissive glances from the students seated there before their attention turned back to the sorting. His table seemed to be very enthusiastic about “Rosier, Rhys,” being sorted into Slytherin, moderately respectful when “Selwyn, Hilda” and “Smith, Thaddeus” ended up in Hufflepuff, and outright dismissive when the other handful of students after Tom were sorted, though none of them ended up in his house. 

Finally, as a cross-looking man with a cane left the front of the hall with the stool and the hat, an old wizard with a white beard stood up from his seat at the centre of the head table. “Welcome, everyone, to another year at Hogwarts. I have a few start-of-term announcements to make before we begin tonight’s feast, so please be patient for a few moments.

“As a note to new students and a reminder to returning ones, the Forbidden Forest is aptly named. If you have studies or special projects that take you into the forest, be sure to obtain a professor’s permission first and only venture in with an approved chaperone.

“Class timetables will be distributed tomorrow morning at breakfast, while sign ups for clubs and Quidditch try-outs will be posted in your common rooms next week.

“Finally, house meetings will take place in your common rooms this evening after the feast at nine o’clock. New students, your house prefects will show you the way after dinner.

“And speaking of dinner, let’s all enjoy this wonderful feast!” There was more clapping, and the noise level in the hall rose sharply as everyone seemed to start speaking at once.

He looked around at the group of first years around him and was surprised to see that Eleanor had ended up in Slytherin with him, though he didn’t see her brother here with her. As the students started piling copious amounts of food that had appeared onto their gold plates—a feast indeed—he sampled some meats and vegetables that didn’t look like they came from a tin, and watched his neighbours.

Rosier, who was sorted shortly after Tom, seemed to already be familiar with two other boys in their year as they were snickering to each other about something across the table from him. Seeming to sense his gaze they looked up, and one of them cleared his throat.

“Introductions, I suppose, though it shouldn’t be necessary. I’m Alexius Nott of course, this here is Rhys Rosier and Rayner Avery, and the quiet one at the end is Tancred Lestrange.” With each name he gave a small nod in the person’s direction, then he gestured off to the side where the girls of their year were sitting as he continued, “That is Fawley, there there is Meliflua, and—is that Buchanan?” One of the girls looked up and shot him a sneer, which he returned. “I thought so. You,” he said, looking right at Eleanor. “Ingram. You’re a cousin of the Selwyns, I hear?”

“I am,” she replied, her chin jutting out a bit as she sat up a bit straighter.

“Remember that, and don’t bring them any shame,” he said harshly, before turning his gaze over to Tom. “You I don’t know.”

Tom didn’t like how this introduction was going with his peers so far, but he replied, “I’m Tom Riddle,” ignoring the sinking feeling in his gut.

He saw a few of the first years who hadn’t spoken yet give him curious looks, but after the introductions clusters of students turned to their own conversations and he felt himself focusing first on maintaining a calm expression and not betraying his disappointment.

After what felt like an age the noises in the hall started to change, and he noticed that pockets of students must have left already as the tables were more sparsely occupied. A older boy and girl approached their end of the table.

“We’re your fifth year prefects. Please follow us; we’ll show you the way to the common room and give you this fortnight’s password.”

Tom and his peers followed the pair toward the Entrance Hall and down a stone stairwell that seemed to descend quite deep below the castle, until the air was several degrees chillier. They walked down bare stretches of stone hallway, sparsely-placed sconces alighting on their own as they approached and extinguishing once more after they passed; there was an eerie sort of silence and dampness in this area, and it felt like what he’d imagine the dungeons of a castle to be.

After a few turns they came to a bare stretch of wall that looked just like the others they’d passed, and the prefects halted.

“Look here,” said the girl, pointing to the stones that the sconces were affixed to. “The sconces are three stones farther apart here than they are in the rest of the dungeons. Until you get used to recognizing that, pay attention to the torches themselves here. These ones are new, since they enchant fresh ones for the entrance at the start of term. By the time they show their age like the rest of the torches down here you should be able to recognize this patch of wall between them.”

After she finished explaining that the boy turned to the blank patch of wall and spoke in a clear voice. “Anguis Spiritu.”

A door hidden in the stonework revealed itself and slid open, and the prefects led the group into large room that was warmed by an immense fireplace under an even larger mantel; the warmth was a comfort after the chill of the dungeon halls, and it was certainly warmer than the heat that the radiators at Wool’s emitted in the autumn.

Many students had apparently made their way to the common room before their group had, as there were students scattered through the room on the sofas and chairs present, some gathered around tables. There was a green cast over the entire room, and at first Tom attributed that to the green lanterns hanging from the ceiling but he soon realized that the windows looked out into what could only be the lake.

Their common room was _under_ the lake.

Their group moved to the side as more students were entering the common room, and it was short minutes before a jovial laugh announced the presence of a short round man that Tom recognized from the head table at dinner. He was entering the room with a group of students, some upper-years, and some hardly older than him, who all appeared to be utterly at ease with the man.

“Yes, yes, quite right Lucretia, quite right! And I dare say—oh my, we’ll need to pick up this conversation later. Good evening everyone!” The man had a large smile, framed by an even larger moustache, and his pale green eyes seemed to search for specific students, only briefly flitting over the faces of the first years before he looked up and over toward the taller students behind them. “I’m happy to see you all returned, rested from the summer. Now, before I steal the new students away I’d like our newest prefects to come up and introduce themselves. We have quite the crop of leaders in our house this year!”

The two students who had led Tom’s group to the dungeons stepped forward and introduced themselves as Neil Pucey and Greta Erbach before stepping back toward the students.

“Capital, capital. And our very own Raina Yaxley is Head Girl this year, so if a prefect can’t help you then she’ll be most helpful to you.” He clapped his hands together, looking out over the group once more, then exclaimed, “Excellent! Well, I look forward to seeing the best and brightest in the Slug Club this year. First years up front here with Neil and Greta, there we are, the rest of you enjoy your evening. Raina, please follow me to my office after I finish here, would you?”

“Yes, Professor Slughorn,” the tall girl agreed before flipping her hair and joining her upper year friends.

Tom and the others followed Slughorn as he stepped off to the side of the common room, toward the notice board. “Now, I’m sure you are all tired from the long day of travel so I won’t keep you too long. Your prefects here will explain everything you need to know. If you do need me though, and I’m not teaching, there’s a door to my office just at the end of this wall—” here he pointed to a dark wooden door that had been hidden in the shadow of an imposing dark wood cupboard “—if you don’t want to walk all the way down to the main door near my classroom. My last piece before I leave you for the night: the Slug Club, as I’m sure your older relatives have told you, is a group of my most promising students. I like to hold little soirées, get-togethers to help those students network with my many influential contacts, past students and—well, I suppose get ahead in the world. Work hard, and you just might find yourself invited!”

“Sir?” The Head Girl had stepped over and was waiting with an artificial expression of patience on her face.

“Ah yes, quite so. Enjoy the rest of your evening, and I’ll see you in class tomorrow morning!” He twirled his moustache and left the common room along with Yaxley, travelling at a leisurely stroll.

The prefects exchanged a glance, and Pucey turned toward the group. “We have some house rules, procedures, and other items to go through. Keep quiet and this should be quick.

“Keep an eye on the noticeboards. Our password changes on Mondays every two weeks, so check the board before you leave for classes on those days. No sharing the password, and absolutely no non-Slytherins allowed in our common room. We’ll find out if you try, and you’ll regret it.”

Erbach spoke up next. “Curfew is nine o’clock until six o’clock, though you’re expected in the common room after dinner each night. If you’re caught out it’s an automatic detention, whether it’s a patrolling prefect who catches you or a professor. If it’s Pringle who catches you, you’ll get the detention, but he’ll also cane you all the way back to the common room.

“We’re your prefects, which means that if you need help, we’re your first stop. Us two specifically are assigned to you first years as well as the second years, the sixth year prefects help out the third through fifth year students, and the seventh year prefects are there for the sixth and seventh years. So leave the other prefects alone, since they’ve got enough on their plates.

“Don’t bother the professors unless a prefect can’t help you. If you need to go beyond us, talk to Yaxley, and if she can’t help you, go to Professor Slughorn—he’s our head of house for a reason. If he can’t help you with whatever it is you’re best off owling your parents, since Headmaster Dippet is a busy man, and if Slughorn _can’t_ help you with something then it’s probably something that Dippet _won’t_ help you with.”

Tom frowned. It seemed as though his policy of not asking for help would continue here.

Pucey picked up the thread again. “Tomorrow we’ll bring you all up to the Great Hall for breakfast, so be here at the common room entrance no later than seven o’clock and after we eat we’ll take you on a brief tour of the castle. The first class block is at nine, and we’ll be passing by the common room on the tour so don’t worry about bringing books to breakfast, we’ll see what your timetables look like first. Oh, dorms are down there, the doors are labelled.” He pointed toward two darkened hallways leading away from the common room. “Boys that way, girls that way.”

The two prefects exchanged another look, and Erbach continued. “You heard the sorting hat, and I’m sure you all know about our house from your families. We all have ambition. We all have cunning. We are all prepared to do what it takes to reach our goals. Remember that; you have the drive that is lacking outside these walls, but so does every other student in this house, to one extent or another. So while you’re outside of these walls, don’t let your own individual desires eclipse those of your peers in this house, and stand together with them instead. We need to present a united house to the others, because that will strengthen us as a unit, which will only help each of us individually in our own aims.”

A solemn sort of silence fell over the group. Finally, after looking at each of them, she spoke again. “Any questions?”

When no one had questions for the prefects the group dispersed, their year splitting into a few separate groups as some students found room on the chairs, while others disappeared in the direction of the dorms. Tom decided to investigate the dorms and get his things ready for the next day, and maybe turn in early, as it had been a long day, and as he arrived at the room labelled ‘First Years’ he noticed he had a shadow.

He pushed into the room, quickly finding his trunk at the foot of one of the four-poster beds, and sat down while the boy that Tom recognized as Tancred Lestrange found his own trunk and started rummaging through it. Seeming to sense he was being watched the boy looked up and met his gaze. “Riddle?” he asked, his voice soft. Tom nodded. “Don’t touch my things.” Then he let the heavy lid of his trunk fall closed as he disappeared behind his bed curtains.

Tom clenched his jaw, his face hot. After taking a few deep breaths he retrieved one of his books from his trunk, settled himself behind his own curtains, and cracked open his battered library copy of _The Canterbury Tales_ to read by wandlight. If his classmates didn’t want to talk to him tonight, that was fine by him. Rereading _The Clerk’s Tale_ would bring him comfort.

* * *

The next morning Tom awoke early, after a night of fitful sleep. The bed was comfortable, to be sure, but felt so different from the mattress that he’d grown used to at Wool’s that he kept waking to adjust his position. When he pulled back the curtains and looked at the clock on the wall he saw that it was just past six, and he would have plenty of time to get cleaned up before meeting everyone in an hour.

He noticed as he gathered his clothes that at some point in the night his robes had been transformed from the pain black that he’d purchased to Slytherin ones, complete with green and silver trim and an embroidered crest on the breast. His brow furrowed as he went about his preparations for the day. Had someone gone through his trunk this morning? Sure that wasn’t practical; there were dozens of new students, and it seemed unfeasible for a staff member to have gone through that many trunks in the dead of night. Maybe there was a spell that would alter all the robes at range?

While he waited for his yearmates he investigated the common room, looking in the various wardrobes and bookcases to find old textbooks, games, stationery supplies including a box of squashed quills, and even throw blankets and spare cushions in one of them. Shoved into the back of one shelf behind three copies of _The Dream Oracle_ were crumpled pieces of parchment that looked to be old test papers belonging to someone named C. Pinkstone, and which appeared to be covered in lewd doodles. He returned those to where he’d found them and spent a bit of time examining the various tapestries and oil paintings on the walls before settling down in a large armchair next to a window, looking out into the water and letting his mind drift.

By the time seven o’clock had arrived a few groups of older students had departed already and the last of their group of first years had arrived, so Erbach and Pucey led them up to the Great Hall for breakfast. They were some of the first students to arrive; even the head table was sparsely populated, with only Dumbledore, a young man who looked to have just finished school, and a tall, spindly-looking Indian woman in attendance. Conversation in their group was mostly directed by Erbach, as she identified the two unknown professors as Stalk, for Muggle Studies, and Aryabhata, for Arithmancy, respectively, and she explained the house points system while indicating toward the immense gem-filled hourglasses along one wall. After they’d all finished eating she rose and the group followed, like a procession of ants, as she swept out of the hall.

Their tour took them across what felt like the entirety of the castle, up the West Tower to the Owlery, up the North Tower to the Divination Classroom, and up what must have been the tallest tower of them all to the Astronomy Classroom, before making their way methodically across each floor all the way down to the dungeons where they found the Potions Classroom and the kitchen. Tom made a note to return to fully investigate the library when he wasn’t stuck to the group, but from what he could see at the entrance it was immense, probably even larger than the London Library, and it smelled of old wood, and leather, and parchment.

The tour finished back at the corridor outside their common room where Pucey handed out their timetables, which he must have been holding onto all this time since Tom recalled that they were supposed to receive them at breakfast.

“Potions first, looks like,” he commented as he was handing the parchments out. “And a free afternoon, that’s good luck then.”

Tom looked down at his timetable, seeing that there were a few other free spots throughout the week, and also noting an alarmingly late block for Astronomy. He heard a murmur of a question while he was still reviewing his page when a hand snatched it away, and he narrowed his eyes at Pucey.

“They’re mostly easy enough to find. Transfiguration is in the Transfiguration Wing on the ground floor, Charms is in the Charms Corridor on the third floor, 3C is also on the third floor. . . . The one that might trip you up is 4F, that one’s on the first floor. But you’ll figure it out,” the prefect finished dismissively, passing the parchment back to Tom while still looking over at Rosier.

“You’ve all got about twenty minutes before the class bell, so unless you need something else we’re off,” Erbach announced, before immediately stating the password to their common room and stepping inside.

Tom collected his things from his trunk and headed off in the direction of the Potions Classroom, not wanting to be late in case he got lost, and ended up waiting outside the room in a queue of what looked to be Hufflepuffs based on the robes. They seemed to be a chatty bunch, and he listened as a boy with a posh-looking haircut was telling the others about how Slughorn was a close family friend. He recognized Hilda from the train in their group.

The others had all arrived by the time the bell sounded, and it was a few minutes later that Slughorn strolled by, greeting the group warmly. “Good morning everyone! What a marvelous way to start your Hogwarts years, don’t you think? Why, I couldn’t think of a better way myself!” As several of the students chuckled he led them into the room, where there were several rows of benches and long tables, the latter of which each had three stations with burners.

“Everyone take a spot, don’t be shy! Once everyone is seated we’ll start with some rudimentary basics today, make sure everyone is prepared before we do anything tricky. Wouldn’t want any explosions on the first day, would we?” He laughed a jolly sort of laugh and held his belly, watching them all find their spots. Tom managed to take a seat next to Hilda, wanting at least one friendly neighbour, though he was concerned about the casual mention of explosions. He tried not to frown too noticeably.

“Now, I know some of you are fresh hands at this subject, but not to worry about that. Those of you who have had some potions training from your parents—or tutors, and I’m sure I may have even taught some of them!—can help us along with some answers while the rest of you take notes. You’ll all be proficient in no time!” He smiled a wide smile around the room, then called out, “Can anyone name for me the five standard metals that are used to make cauldrons?”

At least a dozen hands went up around the room. Tom thought he might know as there were different sections in the index of his Potions textbook for different types of cauldrons, but there were many more than five types so he wasn’t completely certain what counted as ‘standard’ in this case.

Slughorn nodded toward the right side of the class and Nott’s voice rang out. “Five, sir. Pewter, brass, copper, silver, and gold.”

“Very good! Cauldrons can be made of many substances, and even more metals, though most other metals can be more temperamental to work with, and are often for much more specialised recipes. Other materials include glass, certain types of stone, minerals, even wood. . . . Some witches in Ireland brew in a hole in the ground! Though those recipes are often tied directly to the foundational magics in the soil of the island, and—dear me, here I am getting carried away! Can anyone tell me three uses for a knife in potion-making?”

That was a vague sort of question, but Tom added his hand to the mix, while a few others rose as well. A Hufflepuff boy was chosen to answer that one. “Dicing, chopping, and crushing, sir?”

“Excellent! There are of course many other ways to use a knife; some of those are quite illegal, but apart from that creativity is certainly a rewarding part of a mastery in Potions. Now, who can tell me the different categories of components that are used in potion-making?”

The number of hands this time was significantly smaller than for the previous two questions. Hilda had her hand raised still, as did Tom, but there were only two other Slytherins and no other Hufflepuffs with theirs raised.

Lestrange was chosen to answer here, his voice soft but still clear in the quiet classroom. “The base, the solvent, the emulsifier, the transmutative agent, the reversing agent, the augmentor, the negator. And some consider the vessel, the rod, the wand, the vial, and the temperature components as well.”

Tom was scribbling everything down as quickly as he could. That was _not_ covered in what he’d read so far, and he wanted to look up each of those terms himself later.

“Oho! We have an aspiring master right here with us in the room! Well done! You did miss the enhancer, though depending on the recipe many use common enhancers in the place of other components to fulfill other functions concurrently.

“The last question from me before we start the main part of today’s lesson—and to see who did some reading before this morning. Can anyone name a potion that applies a reversal process on its primary ingredient?”

Tom kept his left hand raised while he finished up his notes with his right, then started when a throat cleared in front of him. He looked up to see the class all watching him, and Slughorn smiling. He put down his hand and his dip pen. “A standard Herbicide. Two of the four ingredients are lionfish spines and horklump juice, which are both restorative in nature, but Herbicide is essentially poison for plants. Sir.”

The words spilled out of his mouth, as that had been one of the first potions in the textbook and he’d read it several times over the past month. He wasn’t entirely surprised that he’d recalled the information, since he’d been so determined to learn as much as he could before classes began, but apparently none of the other students had expected him to be able to answer as they were all staring.

“Capital, capital!” Slughorn exclaimed, shaking his head a little and smiling widely. “Well, I think that is an excellent start, five points to each of you! Now, if you open your texts, we’ll discuss the components, the methods, the uses, and the possible dangers of the Herbicide Potion that Mr. Riddle mentioned just now and then we’ll begin with the first brew of the year.”

The class proceeded smoothly from that point, and when it came time to brew the potion he did a decent enough job, or so he thought. The colour was a bit pale, so he made a note of it in his journal and planned to look up why that might have happened later. As everyone bottled their potions he looked around and saw that the majority of the class had also managed to produce results in varying shades of green, though there were five or six students who had entirely the wrong colour, or who were scraping hard sludge out of the bottom of their cauldrons.

As they were packing up their belongings at the end of class Hilda murmured to him, “Have you brewed before, Riddle?”

He shook his head. “No, why?”

She gave him a small smile. “You did really well, for a first time brewer.” She shot a look over her shoulder where Rosier, Nott, and Avery were suddenly laughing loudly at something, then turned back, looking steadily at him. “You studied ahead though? That answer . . . it sounded like something my tutor would have said.”

“I didn’t have much to do in August, so I bought all my course texts right when I got my letter and read them several times. I’m a quick learner.”

“That should help you. If you keep working this well, I don’t mind continuing to be your desk partner. Let me know if you want recommendations on other starting Potions texts, I’ve worked with a few different ones before.”

Tom finally cracked a small, cautious smile. “Thanks, I’ll let you know.”

She gave him a short nod and hurried off, joining a group of Hufflepuffs who appeared to have been waiting for her at the door. As Tom followed at a slower pace he looked around and saw that the rest of the Slytherins had left ahead of him. Well then, now seemed as good a time as any to go explore the library.

He returned to the common room to drop off his things before heading back out, and felt an icy sensation wash over him just as he exited into the hall. Immediately stopping and shuddering he looked behind him and felt like shuddering again when he caught sight of what could only be described as a _ghost_ , all pale, translucent, and glowing.

“Pardon me, young man,” the ghost said in a solemn voice. He was gaunt, with an expression frozen somewhere between misery and weariness, and wore ghostly robes covered in silvery blood.

“N-no trouble at all,” Tom replied, stepping back a few steps. He stared as the ghost resumed its trajectory, passing through the wall that he’d just emerged from, the hidden door to the common room having already slid shut again.

He continued to stare for another ten seconds before he shook himself out of it, turning on his heel and walking briskly in the direction of the Entrance Hall. A _ghost_.

He bypassed the Great Hall and instead made directly for the library, taking a moment to check the sign posted at the entrance listing the rules and hours, before continuing inside. He stopped by the librarian, a tiny, shrivelled woman named Madam Vellum going by the name plaque on her desk, though she had such a gravelly voice that her thick Scouse accent was all but unintelligible to him. She gave him vague sort of directions to the different sections, and shrieked when he dared to _look_ in the direction of a section that was labelled ‘Restricted Section,’ but he gathered enough to get on with as he walked the aisles, mentally establishing the layout of the place.

There were large study tables and small desks with privacy screens, sections with subject names he recognized and sections with subject names he didn’t even know were real words. There were a few tables occupied, mostly with students wearing the blues of Ravenclaw, though he figured most of the castle’s occupants were eating lunch at this hour. Picking a spot with a few small tables and no students he took a seat, pulling out his journal.

He wanted to learn everything there was to learn, but his interaction with the ghost just underscored the fact that he was entirely out of his element here. There was too much that he didn’t know, too much that he didn’t even know that he didn’t know, and he’d continue to be caught wrong-footed until he remedied that.

He made a few notes in his journal as he continued that thread. He needed to learn more about the school. He needed to learn more about how the wizarding ‘world’ worked, to understand the sorts of unspoken rules that apparently everyone knew except him. He’d spend the next week examining the course syllabus for each of his classes to make sure that his extra studies didn’t drag him behind. And maybe he’d find himself a nice place to do his work without the looks that he’d been subjected to so far in the common room.

With that planned out he wandered over to the section that contained school records and picked a few tomes from the shelves, then did the same in the legal section. Returning to the chair he’d picked out earlier he settled in to study.

The hours flew by, as before he knew it the final class bell was ringing announcing the end of classes for the day. He stayed in his spot for another hour or so before his stomach started to object to the long break between his early breakfast and lack of lunch so he collected the books in a stack, stopping briefly at Madam Vellum’s desk on the way out to sign them out, then dropped them off on his bed before making his way to dinner.

The Great Hall was quite full when he arrived, and he had to hesitate a moment after passing through the doors to the hall to let his ears adjust to the significant shift in noise level compared to the quiet afternoon he’d had. The Slytherin table was quite full, so he slid into a spot right at the end of the bench nearest the head table, where he was next to the group of boys in his year.

Rosier was the only one to look over at his arrival. “You’ve been awfully absent this afternoon, Riddle. Up to anything?”

Tom was surprised he was being addressed, so openly too. “No, I haven’t been ‘up to’ anything, if you think I was getting into trouble.” He tried to gauge the other boy’s reaction and couldn’t. “I was in the library, actually.”

“Damn, not another one, Tancred he’s just like you!” he whined dramatically. Lestrange glanced up, darted his eyes quickly between Rosier and Tom, then just as swiftly turned his attention back down to focus on his meal once more.

“I happen to enjoy reading—” Tom started before being interrupted.

“Ugh, you’re putting me to sleep!”

He rolled his eyes, as the brief conversation seemed to end. As he selected food from the platters down the middle of the table he glanced around the hall, catching sight of the ghost he’d seen earlier sitting near the upper years, and also spotting two other ghosts sitting at other house tables.

“I noticed a . . . ghost. Today, when I was coming back from class. Are they common?” he asked a few minutes later, hoping the question wouldn’t bring him embarrassment.

Nott looked over. “Of course,” he replied in a condescending tone. “Every respectable wizarding building has history, and with history comes at least one grizzly death where the spirit refuses to move on. I myself have a great-great-aunt who remains in my family’s manor, though she seldom leaves the gardens.”

Rosier snorted. “Yes, and she _serenades_ you whenever she spots you through a window!”

“Shut it,” Nott snapped, his expression severe.

Rosier smirked. “You look _so handsome_ just like your great-grandad. Of course, he had spattergroit—”

“That’s quite enough, Rosier.” Something unspoken must have been communicated between the two as Rosier’s cackles abruptly stopped and he hunched his back, ostensibly ignoring everything except his dinner.

Nott turned back toward Tom. “The ghost sitting with the sixth years is called the Bloody Baron. He’s decent enough to Slytherins, but even with that you’ll want to show him the proper respect. I’ve heard that he’s a ghost you do not want to cross.”

He nodded in acknowledgment, thinking. What was a ghost capable of doing, if one were crossed? His brow furrowed as he returned to his meal.


	3. Chapter 3

The weekend seemed to end before it even began. Tom had finished his homework for Potions on Friday night after dinner, then retreated to his bed to continue the reading he’d started in the library earlier in the day. Saturday and Sunday passed in much the same way, though he split his reading between those extra-curricular subjects and refreshing his memory on Defence Against the Dark Arts, Transfiguration, History of Magic, and Herbology, as he’d have classes in all four of those subjects on Monday.

Rosier seemed to groan every time he caught sight of Tom reading, which he endured without a care. It certainly wasn’t the first time; the children at the orphanage hadn’t really understood either, though they had left him alone after Billy learned the hard way not to steal his books.

Lestrange kept looking at him like he was a puzzle that he couldn’t solve. Nott ignored him entirely, unless Tom happened to ask a question within earshot—which he tried to avoid doing, since the other boy was just unbearably aloof all the time. And he had no idea what Avery got up to, since he hardly saw him outside of their dormitory.

When Monday arrived Tom was looking forward to the variety of classes they’d be attending, and Professor Merrythought’s no-nonsense attitude in her Defence classroom was a welcome start to the week. They dove right into learning all about vampires, their abilities, strengths, weaknesses, social structures, historically-significant figures. . . . He drank it all in, and earned two points for Slytherin when she quizzed the class on vampire myths. When the class bell rang he was disappointed that they’d have to wait three days until their next class in the subject.

He wasn’t sure what to think as their entire group of Slytherins and Gryffindors headed toward the Transfiguration classroom together. According to their timetable Dumbledore would be teaching this class, and while he hadn’t interacted with the man since his visit over the summer, he couldn’t help but feel a knot of anxiety in the pit of his stomach.

It was short time before the students had piled into the class and been issued the course syllabus. Roll call went by fairly slowly, as Dumbledore seemed to pause and give twinkly smiles after calling out each of the Gryffindor students’ names, and though he didn’t show any particular sort of malicious expression when he called the names of Slytherins the warmth was certainly absent. When Tom’s name was called, he was the recipient of the same suspicious narrowing of the eyes that he’d gotten plenty of during the summer’s visit. Resigning himself, he focused on maintaining a neutral, polite expression and tried not to let the man get to him.

The class proceeded as a lecture, though unlike Merrythought’s engaging delivery on the topic of vampires this was an introduction to Transfiguration concepts, which had been much of the content of the first chapter of the course text. Tom had his journal open in case of any new information but he had already made notes when he’d read through the material during the summer.

As he listened to the importance of concentration and decisive wand movements, and whimsical tales of casts-gone-wrong, his eyes drifted over the other students in the room.

A group of Gryffindors right in the front were grinning, laughing along with the sillier parts of Dumbledore’s anecdotes, while three others in their house were taking copious notes. One of the girls appeared to be taking the occasional note directly in her textbook, which Tom winced at once he realised.

The Slytherins on the other hand weren’t even feigning attention, at least the majority of them. Lestrange was across the aisle from him blatantly working on an essay—it looked like the homework that Merrythought had just assigned. Avery was next to him doodling, or possibly exchanging notes with Nott, since the other boy was occasionally leaning over to look at the page. A row behind them Fawley was reading a letter with a large shiny seal on it. Meliflua appeared to be using her wand to colour her nails, showing them off to Buchanan beside her.

Dumbledore was just in the middle of a tale describing a switching spell gone wrong when he suddenly stopped. “Mr Riddle,” he called out and Tom’s gaze snapped back to the front of the class. “I must ask that you remain attentive like the other students. There won’t be exciting wand-waving in every class, I’m afraid.” His tone was horribly condescending and Tom was immediately on edge.

“Sir, I—”

“There’s no need to be argumentative, Mr Riddle,” Dumbledore interrupted in a mild tone, not giving him a chance to explain, before turning back to the lecture.

There was some snickering coming from the left side of the class where a huddle of Gryffindors were exchanging glances, and the Slytherins were giving him strange looks. Tom’s jaw clenched, and he felt a flush working its way up his neck.

He picked up his dip pen and held it poised above his open journal, but didn’t take any notes. He didn’t want to waste pages copying things down multiple times. 

Nothing new was presented for the rest of the class; it was entirely a rudimentary introduction. As the bell rang and the students collected their things Tom heard his name called out over the din. “Mr Riddle, if you would stay behind please.”

He was peripherally aware of his housemates watching him but he kept his gaze down, making a show of stacking his textbooks, his journal, and closing the lid on his inkwell extra-tightly.

When the room had finally cleared he looked up.

Blue eyes were looking at him with disappointment. The _nerve_. “Tom, I understand that before you came to Hogwarts, you thought of yourself as different. As special. I understand that it is a special thing to learn that magic is real.

“But it’s not fair on the other students for you to be a distraction, and it’s not fair on the professors to be so blatantly disrespectful. It’s expected for students to show up prepared for class with a quill to take notes.”

Tom opened his mouth to say that he had brought a pen, that he had already taken notes, that he was paying attention, anything, but Dumbledore was already talking again. “I must advise you that if you continue to show this type of attitude in your classes then I’ll be required to take house points and issue detentions, and the other professors will do the same.”

Tom closed his mouth.

He wasn’t sure how, but he managed to thank the professor and escape from there, making his way back to the Great Hall for lunch in a daze. He was putting food on his place and eating rather mechanically, the bewildering events of the past hour and a half repeating themselves in his mind on a loop. It was a few minutes before he realised that his neighbours were all looking at him, and someone had been calling his name.

He shook his head a few times to try to clear it. “Pardon?”

Nott spoke. “What was all that about?”

Tom blinked. “I don’t exactly know. He didn’t seem to like me all that much when he brought my letter this summer, but. . . .”

“He brought your letter?” Tom nodded. “Oh yes, I suppose that would make sense. Why didn’t he like you?”

Tom shrugged. “How am I supposed to know?” But as he spoke he supposed he probably did know. Mrs Cole had probably told all sorts of wild tales, based on the bits and pieces she’d heard from the other children over the years.

Nott seemed to pick up on something from his expression as his eyes narrowed, and he didn’t look entirely convinced. “Well, whatever it was, you’d better figure it out. Dumbledore doesn’t exactly love Slytherins, but he’s always obnoxiously nice to a fault. He’s practically famous for it. Don’t drag the house down with whatever your personal issues with him are.”

Tom let out a heavy breath. Of course. It was his fault. That was just typical.

He continued to sit there for a few minutes as conversation resumed around him, excluding him. Finally he couldn’t take it and rose, retreating to the dungeons to gather his things for the afternoon classes on his own.

By the end of the day he was so wound up that he only stopped by the Great Hall for a few minutes to grab some fruit and a roll before going back to the common room to sit in front of a window. History of Magic had been fairly interesting, though Binns’ delivery left something to be desired. Herbology wasn’t entirely riveting, but then he had done some gardening in summers at Wool’s, and they weren’t going to tackle any particularly interesting or tricky plants until the spring term according to the syllabus.

When he arrived at the common room he curled up in a chair, his feet tucked up under him as he looked out into the green of the lake. They were deep enough here in the dungeons that there was hardly any light filtering through the water, and what light there was illuminated how murky it was, with the occasional cloud of vegetation floating by.

He ripped his roll into little bits, slowly letting each piece dissolve on his tongue as he let his mind drift. 

He needed an outlet. At the orphanage, if bad things happened to him, he could make bad things happen back. But he couldn’t do that here. And everyone seemed to be against him for no real reason. The students seemed to dislike or ignore him because they already knew each other previously, so they had no need for another friend. That didn’t seem to quite fit, but it was the closest he could guess.

The professors at least seemed to like him well enough. He’d earned a decent number of points for their house so far. Maybe that was why Nott had finally started to speak to him a little?

Something green and long with too many limbs swam past the window.

Well, if earning points gained him enough grudging respect from his peers, then he’d just continue to focus on being as prepared as he could be for all of his classes. And maybe if he showed that he was the best student in Transfiguration, Dumbledore would stop being so awful.

He sat for a little while longer, until all that remained of the roll was some scattered crumbs on his robes, and the plums were reduced to their stones. Before the common room filled after dinner he went to the cupboard where he’d remembered finding the stationery, and liberated a quill from its box. He’d need to try writing with it tonight to get used to it before using it in any classes. Though he had no plans to go out of his way to use a quill for his homework.

That evening he went on a quick excursion, visiting the kitchens for the first time. While the prefects had explained how the portrait granted entrance they hadn’t explained the strangeness of the creatures—house-elves, apparently—who worked there, though they were friendly and helpful enough. He was able to get a match from one of them and after returning to the Slytherin section of the dungeons, spent the long hours after his housemates had returned after dinner tucked away behind curtains on his bed, practicing his Transfiguration on the small stick of wood. According to the syllabus this would be the first practical casting they would work on, and he needed to be prepared. He didn’t want to give Dumbledore any excuses.

Late that night, after Tom would have liked to go to sleep, they had their first Astronomy class up at the top of the Astronomy Tower. Despite the fact that they’d be doing absolutely no spell-casting in this class, and the syllabus seemed to be entirely comprised of learning to identify celestial bodies and draw star charts, it was properly magical. He had seen stars before, of course, but in the utter darkness of the vastness of Scotland, where the only light other than the stars and moon above was the faint glow of a few lanterns miles away in Hogsmeade. . . . It was breathtaking. And as he gazed upward, sometimes forgetting to look through his telescope and instead taking in the fields of glittering lights above, he couldn’t help but wonder what the surface of the lake would look like this late at night without the boats disturbing its reflection.

* * *

The first year timetable was merciful, it seemed. They had a free first block in the morning, and several of Tom’s yearmates took the opportunity to have a lie in to recover from their late night. Tom could understand that, as he fought back yet another yawn, though he didn’t want to end up missing both breakfast and lunch, and had already gotten into a habit of avoiding meals. And he knew that as soon as he availed himself of the kitchens, it would be a difficult habit to break.

Their first Charms class was on Tuesday afternoon, and after an introduction to the subject and a demonstration of the Wand-Lighting Charm, Professor Smethwyck set them to practicing the spell on their own for the rest of class.

Having already made extensive use of this spell on his own Tom immediately cast his own _Lumos_ , and flinched when he heard a shrill sound coming from the front of the class. He immediately looked around for the disturbance.

“Mr Riddle! Well done, class, look at this clean cast. This is the type of steady light you should be aiming for. Take ten points for Slytherin.”

There were a few mumbles in the direction of the Hufflepuffs, though when he looked over they didn’t appear to be disgruntled. Then again, their two houses had also shared Potions class that morning and he hadn’t gotten any negative looks from them in that class. There were also whispers between Nott and Avery, and Lestrange was looking steadily at him once again. Meliflua was sneering at him.

As he extinguished his wandlight and turned back toward the professor he saw that she had been making her way toward his seat, stopping at a few of the students to give pointers, and was now approaching his place.

“Mr Riddle, you can get started on the homework assignment now if you wish, or you can continue to practice the spell.” She waved her wand toward the front of the class and next to where the name of the spell and diagram of the wand movement, the assignment instructions wrote themselves on the blackboard.

He’d completed the assignment when they were just halfway through their two hour class block, so he flipped ahead in his Charms text, making notes in his journal against the course syllabus. By his reckoning he was prepared for much of the first term’s spell list, so he used the rest of his time reading through the chapters on beginner household charms, wondering if he could do additional work on his trunk to make it look less used. When Smethwyck was turned away from his direction speaking with the students in the front row he smudged a bit of ink on his desk, then covertly practiced the Scouring Charm for the rest of class. By the time the bell rang he’d managed to see results on his final few casts, though there was still some ink residue left on the desk. He was also absolutely getting looks from Lestrange, but if the other boy wasn’t going to say anything, then neither was he.

Tom spent the rest of the afternoon after class finishing up what was left of his assignments, and was in fairly good spirits by the time he ventured to the Great Hall for dinner. He had arrived near the same time as the other Slytherins in his year so he sat down next to Eleanor, wondering how the girl was doing since they’d last had a real conversation on the train.

“Eleanor,” he said in greeting, as he put together his plate.

“Riddle,” she replied, not looking at him. He frowned, shooting a look over at her, which she deliberately didn’t acknowledge.

“How are you finding things so far? I remember you saying you were looking forward to Defence and Charms?” he asked, aiming for a friendly tone.

There wasn’t a response for an awkward enough span of time that he turned away from her again, focusing on his plate. There was a bit of shifting next to him then Eleanor muttered under her breath, “I shouldn’t really be talking to you.” She let out a fake cough then and loudly clattered her cutlery, and when he looked over she was shooting nervous looks toward Meliflua.

Tom’s jaw clenched, though he released it after a few seconds and looked around at the rest of the group. No one was meeting his eyes. As he glanced up toward the front of the hall he caught Dumbledore watching him and he darted his eyes back down again, focusing on his plate.

Fine.

He finished his meal mechanically. He would stand by his house here, in public, and not do anything to catch his least favourite professor’s attention.

As the group rose to return to the common room for the evening he followed, trailing behind them while Fawley was telling the group a story about her uncle, a subject which apparently called for much ridicule. As they spoke the password and stepped through the hidden door Tom waited for it to slide closed again before walking a few paces toward them.

“Eleanor! What was that, at dinner?” he demanded, eyes hard.

The group’s laughter died and they all turned, Eleanor looking anxious, Fawley and Buchanan looking startled and eager respectively, and Meliflua looking downright nasty.

It was the latter who stepped forward, her face twisted into the most pronounced sneer he’d seen from her yet, as she looked at him like he was the most vile insect she’d ever seen. “Mudblood,” she spat, her eyes raking him up and down, pausing over each threadbare spot on his robes. “You haven’t earned the _privilege_ of addressing your betters with familiarity. Learn your _place_.”

The final word was spoken as if it was made of all consonants, all hard edges and sharpness. Tom gulped, his hands clenching at his sides.

She hadn’t finished though. “Ingram here is nothing. Her father is nothing. She is fortunate enough to have a decent mother, but she knows her place. You, on the other hand, are worth less than nothing. Your parents should have been hunted and killed before you were born.”

And at that she sniffed and turned, leading the way across the common room to a cluster of chairs near the fire. Ingram had looked down during the impromptu speech, her arms shaking, but she followed too, not looking up. Tom was too stunned to register the expressions on the other girls’ faces.

Feeling trapped, he walked stiltedly down the corridor to the dorms. His body ice cold he shut the door quietly behind him, his breath coming in short gasps, and after seeing that the room was empty, he threw himself onto his bed and closed the curtains. He stayed there all night.

* * *

After a fitful sleep Tom went to breakfast early, wanting to avoid his housemates, and then he vanished to the library until it was time to head to double Transfiguration. A few minutes before the class bell rang they were filtering into the room, and after roll call a long lecture began covering in minute detail the process of transfiguring a match into a needle.

After they’d passed the first hour mark Dumbledore finally pulled out a small box, waving his wand in a grand gesture and sending a match floating to each student individually throughout the class. It took Tom about ten minutes to fully transfigure his, only a bit of sweat building around his temples. He had spent at least three hours on nothing but this on Monday, and was quite pleased with his work. Of course he could still afford to improve, and make the transformation instantaneous as he knew the professor could do.

Tom looked up and around the room. He was the first to complete the transfiguration, and from his seat he couldn’t see glints of silver anywhere else yet. As Dumbledore passed his row he watched the man cast his eyes over Tom’s needle, then continue walking, not acknowledging it in the slightest. Tom closed his eyes in disappointment. He just didn’t understand.

He spent the rest of class reading his Transfiguration text, feeling the prickling on the back of his neck each time one of his classmates looked over at his needle, but he continued focusing on his book, even if sometimes he found it hard to pay attention to the words. By the end of class a few of the other students had managed to change the colour of their matches, and he’d overheard Dumbledore say some positive and enthusiastic words of encouragement, but the pride that he wanted to feel over being the only student to complete the task was missing. Instead he just had a sour taste in his mouth.

As the bell rang and the class rose, Tom’s stomach sank as he heard the professor call out, “Mr Riddle, stay behind please.”

He sat back down and stared at his little stack of books, listening to the footsteps retreating, and finally the thump of finality as the heavy wooden door closed.

“Tom,” Dumbledore began, a sigh present on the end of the name. “You should know that it has not gone unnoticed that you hold yourself separate from your peers. Showing off in class will only serve to alienate you, and once you are out of school. . . .

“I know that you are young now, and that school seems like a lifetime of experiences ahead of you, but before you know it you’ll be graduating, and the people you’ve built connections with along the way will be more important than ever. A family can be chosen, and don’t throw that away through pride.”

Dumbledore sounded almost . . . sad, but with his eyes burning as they were, with his heart pulsing like a war drum in his throat, choking him, he couldn’t bear to respond or look up.

There was another sigh then. “Very well, you may hurry along to lunch now.”

Tom rose and left the class as steadily as he could, what with his whole body feeling like it was quivering, a leaf on the verge of plummeting from a tree in autumn. He didn’t even bother with the Great Hall, nor did he try to calm himself with the common room’s view of the lake. Once he reached the Entrance Hall he pushed through the large doors to the cool air outside, feeling it as sharp relief on his hot face, and he all but ran to the edge of the lake.

He hated Dumbledore. Hated him like nothing else, hated him like he hadn’t known was possible. He missed Mrs Cole, with her anxiousness, her suspicion, her fear, but he would give anything right now to have her hold him in a hug like she hadn’t since he was three years old.

He’d made it a few hundred yards before he couldn’t walk any further and he collapsed to his knees, gulping shuddering breaths. He thought he’d find a world of people like him here, and instead he was so, so alone.

As he got his breathing under control and wrestled his heart rate steady he looked out over the surface of the lake.

It rippled slightly, and he realised that there was a faint misting of rain that was helping to cool him. A breeze was passing through the rushes, and as he watched the water his gaze became unfocused, his thoughts drifting as he started to feel calm wash over him.

It was perhaps ten minutes later when he felt something else, another emotion that didn’t feel like it belonged. It was . . . curiosity? He felt it at first as a question, vague and unformed in his mind, then as he focused on it he was aware of a tingling warmth spreading through him, starting behind his eyes and filling his body.

_Oh, this is different._

Tom jumped to his feet, looking around wildly. His inkwell rolled about a foot down the bank, having been jostled by his sudden movement.

_I’m not . . . scattered. I’m anchored? Strange._

Tom didn’t see anyone around. Was it a ghost? Maybe they could be invisible. He knew that muggles had all sorts of thoughts about ghosts, but he realised that he didn’t really know much apart from what Nott had explained at dinner the other night.

_Maybe Myrtle does._

Definitely a ghost. Or he was going mad. What on earth was a myrtle?

Feeling rather unnerved he gathered his things and backed away from the edge of the lake, still looking around, before running back to the castle as if he were being chased. He raced down to the dungeons to gather his things for the afternoon’s classes, and resolved to put the strangeness behind him. At least it had distracted him from Dumbledore.

By the time Tom was fully immersed in Binns’ lecture on the Wizengamot’s political shenanigans that almost resulted in a full-on civil war in the seventeenth century, he had put the strange events of the lakeside out of his mind, through distraction or stubbornness he wasn’t sure. The ancient wizard was tottering around, waving his arms wildly, explaining intricacies of the familial relationships and various pacts that had led to the results, when unbidden, the words _Ghosts shouldn’t teach_ flitted through his mind.

Tom knocked his inkwell over.

The Ravenclaw boy sitting next to him exclaimed in dismay as ink ran near his parchment and he whispered frantic apologies, casting _Scourgify_ a few times trying to catch it before it spread further.

“Boys, is everything quite all right?” called the teacher’s voice from the front of the class.

“Yes, Professor!” he responded, his voice sounding thin to his ears. He looked up to see Binns waving his wand, the rest of the spill vanishing instantly.

“Mr Riddle and Mr Moon, a little less misadventure during class, if you please,” the old man scolded, before returning to his lecture.

Tom sank a bit lower in his chair, avoiding meeting the stares that he could feel from the Slytherins. He kept his gaze lowered for the rest of class, taking plenty of notes with his right hand while his left hand gripped the desk, his knuckles white.

_Riddle. Tom Riddle?_

Tom gripped the desk tighter, ignoring the frown that Moon was directing at him.

Herbology mercifully didn’t have any misshaps, though on his way back up toward the castle he distinctly heard the same voice say, _The ghosts don’t go outside. But Myrtle uses pipes._

He stopped and crouched down, pretending to adjust his shoelace, and once there was a sufficient gap between him and the rest of the dispersing students he whispered, “Who’s there?”

There was no reply.

Shooting nervous looks around again he walked quickly to the castle, stopping by the common room briefly to drop off his things and clean the dirt from his hands and arms, before heading up to dinner. Once there, he only deliberated briefly before catching Nott’s attention during a break in conversation.

“Nott, I had another question about ghosts, if you don’t mind,” he started, his hands worrying at his robes under the table, unseen.

The other boy looked over, his gaze expressionless.

“Can ghosts be invisible?”

Nott was shaking his head before Tom had even finished the question. “No, they’re always translucent, though sometimes at twilight they can be harder to see depending on the positioning of natural light.” He paused, as if considering something, then continued. “If you’re worried about ghosts watching you while you sleep, they might, but they wouldn’t be invisible while they did it.”

Now there was an uncomfortable thought. But brushing past that, he pressed further. “So there aren’t invisible things then?”

“Oh, there are definitely invisible creatures. Demiguises, Thestrals, Tebos, probably some others. And there are spells and potions to make you invisible.” His eyes narrowed a bit, but he didn’t say anything further.

Tom’s brow furrowed. “All right, thanks.”

His thoughts spun in circles for the rest of dinner, and a part of his mind was still thinking this over as he focused on his studies that evening. Finally, feeling wrung out he decided to practice his charmwork by repeatedly casting _Scourgify_ on his trunk, after emptying its contents onto his bed. By the time he was happy with the spell’s results the grit and grime that had built up in the corners of the trunk were well and truly gone, and most of the staining that had been on the lining was absent. Reorganizing his belongings and tucking everything away he went to sleep, feeling a bit better.

* * *

  
Thursday began wonderfully. Merrythought continued her lecture on vampires and taught the class about useful spells to have in their repertoire in case they should ever need to defend themselves against one, though they didn’t start casting them yet. Charms also went well, and saw Tom earning some points for correct answers about Levitation Charms, and he seemed to get nothing but smiles from the professor. Before he knew it the first year Slytherins and Gryffindors were on their way out to the lawn for their first flying lesson, and his usually reserved housemates were in a cheerful mood, with Rosier and Nott jostling each other, and even Buchanan cracking a rare smile.

Madam Murray was fierce, like a grizzled old cat, wearing black and white robes and a tartan cap. Her eyes seemed to be everywhere, and she had deep frown lines as if her face never relaxed.

She walked them all through some standards of broom maintenance and broom safety, before she had them all call up the brooms to their hands and start rising gently above the ground. When they were all hovering a few feet in the air she guided them on a slow procession around the grounds of Hogwarts pointing out various points of interest, many of which he hadn’t seen yet not having had a chance to explore outside.

_I love flying._

The tone was wistful, and it was most definitely _not_ Tom who was thinking it. This flying experience wasn’t bad, but it also wasn’t something he was in love with. Binns had mentioned the Floo Network briefly in their first lecture while he spoke about the establishment of a unified magical Britain, and the Apparition thing that he’d read about sounded like the most efficient form of travelling by far.

 _I miss Quidditch_ , came another unbidden thought and Tom didn’t have the first clue what to make of that, until their route took them by what could only be described as an immense stadium and Murray pointed it out to them as the ‘Quidditch Pitch.’

Apparently magical people had their own sports.

Many of his classmates only became more boisterous as the afternoon went on, but finally the tour ended and they were finished their classes for the day. Tom went about his usual routine in the evening, but when he turned in for the night he took the opportunity of an empty dormitory before the boys went to bed to attempt to speak to the strange entity.

“Hello? Are you there?”

There was silence.

“Unwelcome voice that’s been talking about ghosts and flying, can you hear me?”

Nothing.

Rolling his eyes Tom went to sleep, not sure what to think.

The next morning Tom went down to breakfast a little later than usual, as he knew he’d have plenty of free time in the afternoon to work, and ended up sitting with the rest of his year. He was a little startled when a loud buffeting sound, like storm winds rippling a heavy tarp, suddenly sounded from somewhere above and he looked up, seeing what had to be hundreds of owls flying down, swooping over the house tables, some dropping letters toward students while others landed in front of their plates. He stared.

He watched as owls held out a foot, and students grabbed the rolled up newspapers that the animals offered while dropping a knut into a pouch on their leg. And the newspapers were like the one he’d seen in the Leaky Cauldron, with moving pictures on the cover.

He was frankly surprised to see that the Slytherin table wasn’t covered in down and bird droppings once the owls had all left.

He shook himself a little, and noticed that Rosier was looking at him with one eyebrow raised. “Owls at eight every morning,” he said, his words curt as they usually were in the morning before he’d fully woken up, but some amusement still present in his tone.

Tom pursed his lips, embarrassed that he had been read so easily, but elected to not worry about it too much. As the girls left the table one of them stumbled against him, and he felt a bit of parchment shoved past his arm.

He looked down at where it had landed in his lap, and unfurled it.

> _Boathouse. 2 p.m._

He curled the note in his hand, looking over at the group that was just nearing the doors to the entrance hall now. He hadn’t any way to identify the particular handwriting, but judging by the body language he was certain he knew who had written the note.

His thoughts strayed a few times in Potions but fortunately only during the lecture portion of the class, and by the time they were pulling out their cauldrons and starting to brew he had been able to wrestle his focus back to the potion of the day.

Finally, they were released for lunch and Tom escaped to the common room, spending the next few hours wrapping up the final bits of homework for the week before he needed to head outside. When it was a quarter to two he tucked his things away and set off toward the entrance hall, making his way toward the boathouse, keeping an eye on his surroundings.

At five minutes past two he heard footsteps echoing in the empty building.

“Ingram.”

She looked utterly miserable, but Tom couldn’t bring himself to care too much. He leaned against one of the pillars, his arms crossed.

“Riddle.” She stopped about ten paces away from him, one of her hands twisting in the side of her robes, and was looking away.

He waited for two long minutes, then broke the silence as she had shown no indication of trying to speak yet. “You’re the one who wanted to meet. What did you want. You’ve made it pretty clear that you don’t actually want to talk to me.”

Her expression crumpled further. “I—I wanted to explain. I still can’t really be seen speaking with you, but—but you should at least know why!” Her voice had steadily risen in pitch as she spoke, until it ended with a cry. Tom could hear startled birds taking flight from the rafters above.

“So talk then.”

He heard her let out a shaky breath, and she turned to face the water, still not looking at him.

“I’m doing what I need to—to make it. This is what I have to do. So that I can survive here.”

“What does that even mean,” he asked flatly.

“I—my father, he’s—I mean, he isn’t a pureblood. He’s not a muggle! But, he’s not—people don’t know the Ingram name, it’s too new. And I have cousins who are—” Here her words were choked, and Tom could see shining tears on her cheeks. “My father’s not a pureblood, so I need to—to be careful, say the right things, d-do the right things. My m-mum’s a Selwyn, so as long as I b-behave like a good pureblood, I’ll be okay. Because of her.”

Tom listened. After a week in this school he had a pretty good idea of what she meant by ‘pureblood.’ His mouth hardened, but he listened as words and tears continued to pour out of her.

“Hildy’s nice, but she’s a proper pureblood, and she’s in Hufflepuff, s-so she can t-talk to who she likes and that’s f-f- _fine_. But Tom, you don’t have a name.” Here she looked up at him, and her eyes were red and shiny, and her whole face was puffy. “You have no _name_ , Tom,” she repeated, as if that would change something.

He swallowed.

She looked down again, and her voice got quieter. “The professors seem to like you a lot, other than Dumbledore. So you can earn loads of points for Slytherin, and you should do that. I—I hope the others realise that sooner rather than later, and stop giving you such a hard time.”

She looked up at him again, and seemed to be steeling herself to say something even more awful than everything she’d said so far. “B-but you’ll never be respected here, not really, because of who you aren’t, unless you find something to make people respect you. And until you do—” she choked here “—I need to look out for me first.”

She turned and took a few steps away before stopping, and adding a few final words. “I’m really sorry. It’s not—it’s not personal.” Then she ran out.

It wasn’t personal. The words echoed in his mind for what felt like an eternity, until he felt his chest tighten so much that he felt like he was suffocating, before he realised that he had stopped breathing. He sucked in thick, syrupy breaths of air, sliding down the pillar until he was seated on the stone floor, hands spread to either side holding on while the room started to spin.

And then, for the first time that day, the little voice spoke up. _What the_ hell _was that_?

Tom didn’t really register the words at first. He was still trying to come to terms with all of the casual discrimination that had just been projected toward him—in a completely it’s-not-personal manner, of course—over the past few minutes and was aware that the strange not-ghost had spoken, but it was too much. It was all too much.

He wasn’t really sure of the passage of time. He knew that it took a long time for his breathing to even out. He knew that it took even more time to be able to consciously form thoughts, rather than the uncontrollable spinning that had been going on in his mind. The sun was definitely lower in the sky now than it had been when he’d first arrived.

The voice seemed to sense this chaos, as it remained quiet until Tom regained control. But then it spoke again. _What just happened_.

And it wasn’t a question. The first time, Tom was aware of the tone more than anything, and it was an outburst, complete with shock, offense. . . . This though, this was different.

“I suppose it’s been building to this,” he offered. He felt entirely drained. His head felt empty.

_That’s not an answer._

“Well, give me an answer then. Who are you?”

_That’s complicated. I suppose after all this time I’m more of a ‘what’ now, anyway._

Tom narrowed his eyes at the non-answer, but had no fight left in him right now to push.

_Besides, that doesn’t matter. Who has any right to talk to anyone like that? That was vile! And she had the audacity to act like she was a victim in this._

He mused that had he been a different person, he might have felt some defensiveness on the girl’s behalf, but he didn’t. He just felt . . . nothing.

“She made a good point though. I have to make them respect me.”

 _But you shouldn’t_ have _to!_

The voice sounded completely outraged on his behalf. That was nice, Tom supposed.

“That doesn’t change the fact that I do,” he argued reasonably. “They don’t respect me, that’s a fact, regardless of whether it’s justifiable or not. So I need to do something to change that, otherwise it won’t change.” He continued to think, looking out over the water. Then he thought back to the stories that had taught him better than people had, when he was living at Wool’s, back when the world made sense.

“ _The Shipman’s Tale_ ,” he said suddenly, realising what he needed.

_What._

He stood, feeling much more steady already, now that he understood. “I won’t get anywhere if I try to court those at the bottom. I need to court those at the top. If I focus on those at the bottom, I’ll just be endlessly giving myself away, and that will continue to drain me, and I’ll end up nowhere with nothing. But if I find those who hold the power, and curry favour with them, and grow my influence that way. And if I can’t get there with the students, then I’ll go right to the very top.”

_What._

He wasn’t sure if the voice was repeating the earlier question—though there was a complete lack of inflection and it was really more of a statement—or asking anew as Tom continued to verbalise his thoughts.

“I’ll figure out what Slytherin itself values, as an entity, more than just the traits that the hat sang about but what really matters most to the house and the founder. And if I prove myself invaluable as a member of Slytherin, then the students will need to recognize that.” He knew he sounded confident. He thought he felt confident. The voice was silent at this point, but as Tom brushed the dust from his robes and headed back toward the castle, he could still feel its presence like a soft pressure at the base of his skull.


	4. Chapter 4

Despite the skeptical remarks that the voice interjected at odd times, Tom felt a sense of purpose as the following weeks passed. Any time he was not focusing on his assignments or working ahead he was in the library, reading anything and everything he could about Slytherin, from the founding through to the graduating class of 1938.

By the second full week of school he had a well-established reputation as a mis-sorted Ravenclaw, and by the last week of September Lestrange had even started to join him in the library. The other boy remained his usual quiet self, though Tom had caught him casting some speculative looks in his direction.

That wasn’t really a surprise though; surely the most oblivious muggle would have noticed by now that the books and records all shared a common topic.

As the trees outside transformed into a tapestry of oranges, yellows, and reds, he continued to earn a steady influx of house points in all classes except for Transfiguration. In that class he regularly received disappointed looks from Dumbledore, but he couldn’t bring himself to spare even two thoughts about the man and his judgment; Tom wasn’t going to lower his own personal standards of performance for whatever misguided nonsense the man spouted. He was easily the most studious student in his year, and if he consistently proved that he was completely worthy of his magic—regardless of what that Meliflua hag said—then he didn’t see why that was a bad thing.

By late October he had to take a brief break from his research into the Slytherin house and focus instead on the Doubling Charm. Due to his research project he was rapidly running out of room in his journal, and it definitely wouldn’t last until his end of year exams. He recalled the expensive notebooks and planners at Wizarding Supplies when he’d been in Knockturn Alley that summer, and realised that he could magic his little book to copy the blank pages just inside of the back cover; he might not be able to figure out how to make it have endless pages _yet_ , but until then he could certainly figure out a solution.

He would not carry around sheafs of loose parchment from class to class. The students who did that were only _begging_ to lose their notes.

When he’d decided to start on this new little project he had been amused to note Lestrange’s reaction, when the boy had approached their little corner of the library and come to a dead stop upon seeing the sixth year Charms textbook sitting on their table. After about half an hour, during which time Tom could practically _hear_ Lestrange thinking, the other Slytherin had finally spoken up and asked what he was working on.

And then they’d started working on learning the spell _together_.

It was all truly baffling, but by the second week of November they had figured out how to duplicate the blank pages at the back of his journal so that the new ones would appear already within the binding, and Tom was back to scouring through the school records.

Even more surprising than the _Geminio_ Incident, as he had labelled it in his thoughts, was when Lestrange had tentatively asked if he was looking for anything in particular. He’d asked this when Tom had four decades-worth of Hogwarts awards records spread open on the table, and he’d not answered at first, certain the boy was talking to someone else.

But then when he heard a throat clear across from him, and noticed that the scratching of the quill had stopped, he looked up.

“Pardon?” he asked, meeting his black eyes.

The eyes looked pointedly at the records he had open, and the stack of eight more decades-worth that he had next to him, and he spoke again. “You’re clearly looking up information about Slytherins. A lot of information, all about the house, or past students. Are you looking to be an expert, or are you searching for something specific?”

Tom sat back in his chair with his head slightly cocked, and considered. He didn’t want to come right out and ask ‘What do Slytherins care about,’ since that was a nonsense question that would assuredly get a nonsense answer. He decided to try for at least a big of vagueness.

“I’m trying to understand the house. I’ve read about the various accomplishments of centuries worth of students, about the fact that Salazar Slytherin contributed greatly to the charmswork on the castle, and that he was a wandmaker, and that he was a notably skilled Legilimens. And I know about the reason that he purportedly left Hogwarts. The house values determination, and cunning, and I suppose the cunning is why he chose the snake as the house mascot. Is there anything else that I should know, as a Slytherin? It would be so helpful if information about the school were a little more consolidated,” he added, looking at the array of records in annoyance.

Lestrange gave a funny little smile. Tom blinked, caught by surprise at the strange expression on his face. “You should look into snake lore.” And then he returned to his own work.

Tom frowned, wondering if he was being led astray, then stood abruptly and walked away from the table to look for that subject. At this point he was willing to give it a try. And if his time was being wasted, then he supposed that was a good enough indication of Lestrange’s character.

He returned to the table ten or so minutes later with a few tomes and started flicking through, less interested in fully absorbing these texts since he’d never been that interested in iconography and symbolism. Finally, a tiny section about ingredient harvesting in _Serpent: A Potioneer’s Familiar_ had him looking up, eyes wide.

“Parseltongue? Parselmouth? Can you tell me that I’m not leaping to the wrong conclusion?”

Lestrange’s little smile had returned, and he set his essay to the side while his fingers fiddled with his quill. “Parseltongue is the language of snakes. A Parselmouth is a person who speaks Parseltongue. Salazar Slytherin was famously a Parselmouth, a trait that continued on in his bloodline.”

Tom continued to stare, thoughts bubbling up in his mind, until the one that finally burst out was, “Then why didn’t any of the records about the founders mention that!?”

“Riddle!” The screech came from the librarian’s desk and he ducked his head down instinctively, though really, he should have known better. When Madam Vellum didn’t come racing around a bookcase to eject him from the library he looked back up at Lestrange.

He still had that funny smile. Tom hated the sight of it. “That would be like wasting space in a book to say that the castle was made of stone. Or that Slytherin was a wizard. It’s just something everyone in Britain knows.” And he said it so matter-of-factly too that he knew that it was the truth.

Tom flipped the book shut and put his head in his hands, deep in thought. He was surprised that the voice hadn’t said anything; it had become more reticent over the past two months as he’d delved further and further into the project, but now that he had an answer, potentially _the_ answer, it was silent.

Without looking up he asked, “You mentioned bloodline; is it only in his bloodline?”

“Apparently.”

Tom let out a quiet breath. He stayed like that for a few more minutes, hearing the sounds of Lestrange’s quill scratching on parchment resume, then looked up. To his credit the other boy didn’t look curious at all, though he certainly must have some questions about the reason behind this marathon that Tom had been on since almost the start of the school year. But he continued with his work, while Tom returned every one of the books to their proper shelves, until Lestrange finally finished the essay and pushed it away.

By that point Tom was sitting at their table again, no books at all in front of him, still thinking, though his head was no longer buried in his hands.

That small smile still twisting his lips, Lestrange gave him a steady look. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Tom worried his lip. Lestrange just watched him, the most serenely patient expression on his face, if it weren’t for that stupid smile.

“Dumbledore is a muggle-lover, right? That’s why he’s the way he is with Slytherins? Because of Salazar’s reputation?”

Lestrange didn’t so much as blink over the shift in topic. If anything, his smile grew a little wider. “That’s right.”

“I think I know why Dumbledore has such a huge problem with me.” It all made sense. Well, not everything, since he still didn’t know who his parents were other than bits of a few names, or why he’d ended up in a muggle orphanage in London of all places, or any number of other things, but it certainly explained why Dumbledore’s disinterest toward Slytherins compared to his love of everyone else paled when it came to his treatment of Tom himself.

Lestrange was still waiting patiently.

“I’m a Parselmouth.”

Lestrange’s smile was still there as he said, “I think it’s time the first year boys had a meeting.”

* * *

  
It was like metamorphosis. One day he was the student that the others all ignored, and the next he had the rapt attention of all the Slytherin first years—except for Meliflua, because she couldn’t look past his last name and thought he shouldn’t have been born, but given her complete lack of anything resembling humanity he didn’t consider that too much of a loss.

It had begun in a small meeting, which Lestrange had apparently coordinated with the other boys. After they’d finished up in the library that Saturday and gone to dinner, they returned to the common room and he’d been led to their dormitory.

Rosier had apparently been instructed to liberate a portrait of a snake from _somewhere_ in the castle and had been happy enough to oblige, so when they opened the door to their room he heard—

_“You will put be back in my home, you vile walker, I demand it!”_

“What’s going on,” he asked, and Nott pushed him forwards as the rest of the group crowded in, then shut the door.

_“I will emerge from this flat-room and bite you, and my venom will turn your final moments into an eternity of agony!”_

The boys were looking at him expectantly, though Avery’s expression was mostly skeptical. He turned toward the painting and snapped, _“Do you mind waiting a moment? They can’t understand you, so your threats are pointless.”_

The snake stopped its angry hissing immediately and stilled, peering toward him curiously. It relaxed its hood and coiled down into a ball, looking tense.

Tom turned to the others who were all staring in shock now, even Lestrange, who still had that damn smile. “Well? Someone mentioned a meeting?”

“A Parselmouth!” Rosier crowed. “Riddle, a Parselmouth! That’s Fate’s best joke yet!”

Avery narrowed his eyes. “How do we know it’s not a trick. It’s not as though anyone can verify what it said.”

Rosier turned on him. “And the snake just decided to shut up for fun, did it? Do you know how long it’s been spitting at me? The second I touched its frame it started, before I’d even managed to get it off the wall. And I hauled it all the way down from the second floor, since the ones in the common room wouldn’t come off the wall, and I had to duck into the girls’ lavatory when Pringle walked by. He probably thought there was a burst pipe in there for all the noise the damn thing was making. Oh and someone had better have brought me food, I missed dinner for this.”

Tom was blinking at the verbal stream of consciousness but Nott just replied dismissively, “We’ll go to the kitchens later.” He turned to look at Tom, a considering look in his eyes. “Very well, a test then. Rhys, bring the painting somewhere—don’t tell us where—and let it get a good look around. Then bring it back. Then Riddle, you’ll tell us what the snake describes of that location. How’s that for a test, Rayner?” he asked, directing the last toward Avery.

The other boy shrugged, looking like he’d rather be elsewhere.

Rosier made a show of groaning as he picked up the heavy frame but he left immediately, and the snake stayed silent.

They all waited in silence in the dormitory for the next half hour. Lestrange had put away his essay and Transfiguration text in that time and had started to read a book that looked like it could have been a novel, while Nott began composing a letter. Who knew what Avery was doing. Finally, the door pushed open and Rosier re-entered, looking annoyed, for obvious reasons.

_“You tricked me!! That walker led me out of here, made me to believe I was being returned to my home, but it was a vicious lie! I find myself returned to this foul place. I demand my sunlight!”_

Tom huffed in irritation. He didn’t miss how single-minded snakes could be at times.

Rosier leaned the frame against one of his bed posts facing out toward the rest of the room, and Tom sat at the foot of his own bed looking at it. _“We’ll bring you back to your home after. They just want to test us.”_

The snake rose up high above its coils, looking around at the group imperiously. _“A test? I will pass this test now.”_

Tom rolled his eyes. _“When you were brought somewhere just now, what did you see?”_

_“I saw stone passages, then large barrels of wood, and many flat-rooms full of food. Plenty of food, great piles of meat, and much fruit that walkers seem so fond of. Then more stone passages, and doors that smelled of danger and shed skins. Then a stone passage of flat-rooms containing walkers.”_

Tom relayed that information to the group, and when asked about the ‘danger’ room he reflected, then suggested the snake might mean the Potions storeroom, or perhaps the classroom. Rosier was nodding along in confirmation.

“That’s all correct. I brought it through the dungeons toward where the kitchens are, then down the Potions Corridor.”

“You didn’t think to bring it somewhere a little less predictable? Do you really believe that he’s Slytherin’s Heir?” inquired Avery, sounding very doubtful.

“Shut up, Avery,” Lestrange said calmly, before turning to Nott. “I told you he was worth watching.”

Nott was looking at Tom still, bearing an appraising expression. “We’ll need to teach you. You’re doing well on your own, but you could do better. We’ll help you. All of us will,” and he slid a narrow look over to Avery as he said the last.

“We’ll spread the word around to the others. This doesn’t give you a free pass, but should you learn the right lessons and continue to represent Slytherin well, the house will support you.”

Tom wasn’t sure what to say. This was what he wanted—though he wasn’t sure if he should be nervous about whatever Nott and the others were going to teach him—but the suddenness of this change of attitude made him feel like something was twisting unpleasantly inside him.

But then Ingram’s words from that second week of school echoed through his mind, and he sat up a little straighter, meeting Nott’s gaze directly. “Then teach me.”

The solemnity of the moment was broken by Rosier letting out a cheer, and then plenty of enraged hissing as the snake had grown tired of being ignored. Rosier’s enthusiasm quickly quelled he rose and lugged the frame back out of the dorm room without Nott even mentioning it. Tom joined the rest of the group as they all made their way to the kitchens, where Rosier joined them some twenty minutes later, calling out for food before he’d even sat down and then throwing himself into a seat.

The rest of the evening passed in a curious mix of boyish banter, from all of his dorm mates, even Nott who had until now been so stern and authoritative, along with explanations of the sorts of things he needed to know. They’d be educating him on all the topics that they’d been raised with in their pureblood households, including important magical establishments and points in history, the important players in politics, and the important families and their areas of influence. At this last item Nott pushed over a dark tome he’d brought with him to the kitchens and Tom accepted it, brushing his fingers over the thick leather cover and tracing the gilded debossed title. _Pure-Blood Directory_ , it read.

“Start with that, memorize the names. We’ll cover who of those families attends Hogwarts, their connections to other families, everything you ought to know about them.”

Tom noticed that Lestrange was giving Nott a peculiar look, but had no idea what it meant.

Nott was still watching him so he nodded in acknowledgment. “You mentioned that you’d pass this along to the others. What exactly does that mean?”

“Expect people to talk to you in public now,” Avery responded directly, cutting to the heart of it.

“And those who have been actively speaking against you within the house will realise that to continue that behaviour would be to sabotage themselves,” Nott finished.

“Expect to be watched more,” Lestrange pointed out. “Not maliciously, but more eyes will be on you. Don’t forget that. Always assume you are being watched.”

“Will we tell Sluggy?” Rosier asked, having finally finished sampling the assortment of treats that an elf had brought over after dinner and brushing crumbs from his fingers.

“No. Not until Tom’s trained, and at that point it’ll be up to him who else he tells,” Nott replied, sounding firm on the matter.

Rosier sat up suddenly, much more alert than he’d been all evening so far, which was quite a feat for him. “Wait, wait. Does this mean we get to bring him to Quidditch matches now? Hey Tancred, no more hiding in the library on match Saturdays!” He belted out a maniacal laugh that sounded absolutely ridiculous, and Lestrange looked completely unimpressed.

“The next match isn’t until February. There’s plenty of time between now and then for Riddle to convince you that he’s a reasonable human being with better things to do than sit out in the cold pretending to care about something as fleeting as a Quidditch win.”

Rosier gasped, a sound of outrage spawning somewhere in his throat, then he was chucking his napkin over at the other boy. As laughter and shouts erupted around him Tom found himself smiling faintly, feeling in lighter spirits than he had in quite some time.

* * *

If Tom had thought that Sunday was an abrupt shift in his peers’ behaviour toward him, he would have been wrong. He hardly interacted with people on the weekends, after all, since he spent as much time as he could on his various studies. Monday was an altogether otherworldly experience.

He awoke at his usual early hour, navigating the dark dorm room by memory, the other boys all dead asleep. When he arrived at the common room he saw a few of the upper years already there, some doing classwork, while others were just assembling to head to breakfast. Those near the common room entrance looked up and gave him a nod in greeting, which he tentatively returned.

He heard a throat clear behind him and turned. “Heard you were an early riser. Morning,” Fawley greeted as she approached from the girls’ dormitories, looking put together, though a little bleary-eyed. “Shall we?”

“Good morning,” he replied in a bit of a daze, walking with her up to the Great Hall.

“I’ve been trying to get used to waking up earlier. I hate being so rushed before classes in the morning,” she said conversationally as they navigated the dungeons. “I never used to have this much trouble waking early at home, but there at least I had bright sunlight coming through the windows at dawn.”

Tom nodded slowly. “I had a decent amount of light in my room too. And I liked having breakfast early so that I could leave and do things during the day.” He wasn’t sure if she’d prod, asking about his home life, and he hoped she wouldn’t.

It seemed fortune favoured him.

Instead they spent the journey as well as the meal discussing her family. Apparently her uncle was the current Minister for Magic. Tom mentioned that he’d noticed she received a lot of post, and she even let out a brief laugh, saying that her uncle was very kind but certainly a bit ridiculous in the political realm, so the rest of her relatives felt that it was their duty to keep her up to date on the latest gossip that he incurred at family dinners.

He smiled, partly in amusement at the story, but mostly at the warm feeling of acceptance that was filling him.

He was refilling his juice when Buchanan sat across the table and grunted a vague sound of greeting at both of them, and then he heard another more eloquent greeting from the Ravenclaw table behind them, where he noticed that Flint had just taken a seat. He and Fawley seemed to know each other and struck up a conversation, and Tom was once again surprised when the boy directed a question his way about the homework assignment they’d had for History, which their houses would have together that afternoon.

With the steady conversation he found himself lingering in the Great Hall for longer than usual, but as conversation topics lapsed he excused himself, not wanting to upset his usual timetable entirely due to his new social . . . something. As he rose he caught the eye of Dumbledore, who was gazing at him over the top of his newspaper. Tom looked away and left the hall.

His dorm mates caught him outside of their Defence classroom as they waiting for the door to be opened. “So, how are things so far? Any issues?” Nott asked, after greetings had been exchanged.

“Things are already quite different. Did you, ah, ‘spread the word’ across all the houses?”

Avery frowned. “Absolutely not. What happened?” he demanded.

“Flint was talking to me. He wasn’t particularly awful before, but certainly not friendly, so I wondered.”

Nott was already shaking his head though. “He’s one of the families,” he said, giving Tom a pointed look. “And besides, many in his family are Slytherins, so he’d find out regardless. Well, he doesn’t know the full story, the others won’t either until you choose to give them a demonstration. But you’ve been vouched for.”

Tom nodded. There were Gryffindors joining them in the group outside the classroom door now, so he was a bit more careful with his next questions. “By demonstration, you mean like the painting?”

Nott nodded but didn’t say anything further, and then the conversation was effectively ended by the class bell ringing and the door swinging open.

Nothing was fundamentally different about the Defence class itself, though the students arranged themselves into quite a different seating arrangement, with Tom nestled in the midst of the Slytherin boys rather than off to the side between the two houses. If Merrythought noticed the abrupt change she didn’t comment on it. Even among the other house’s students only one seemed to notice, though Macmillan’s only visible reaction was a double take when she walked past the group and took in their spots.

Transfiguration, however, was doomed to be its own beast. His house mates tried to arrange themselves in a similar manner as they had in the previous class, and there were no objections from the Gryffindor students, though the moment Dumbledore caught sight of their movements he called out, “Mr Riddle, I must ask that you take your usual seat and stop causing distractions in class.”

Of course.

There were puzzled looks from the majority of the students here, even some of the Gryffindors. Once the class was underway and they had reached the practical portion of the lesson he felt those cold blue eyes on him, and already could feel the frustration rising within him, erasing some of the calm that had built up over the span of the weekend.

As class ended Tom was not surprised to hear Dumbledore call on him to stay behind, though he was grateful to see his dorm mates wait by the door.

That was, until the professor turned to them. “Run along boys, Mr Riddle surely has learned the direction to the Great Hall by now.”

He saw Rosier’s mouth twist and open, but he also saw Avery’s hand snap out and his fingers close around his arm like the talons of a clawed beast, dragging the other boy out of the class. The door closed behind them.

He turned back to the front, meeting the professor’s eyes, jaw clenched.

“Mr Riddle, I am thrilled to see you making strides with your peers.” He didn’t sound thrilled. “But disrupting the education of your classmates is detrimental to all, and I hope you can keep that in mind in the future. Five points from Slytherin. You may go.”

The man turned his back on him then to make a show of erasing the notes on the blackboard and Tom seethed, grabbing his things and stalking out the door. The other Slytherin boys were waiting in the hall, and Rosier still looked mutinous.

“That—” the boy started, but Avery’s hand, which was still wrapped around his upper arm, tightened so hard his fingers went white.

“Not here, you imbecile,” he hissed.

When they had arrived back at the Entrance Hall the group turned toward the main doors and pushed outside rather than heading into the Great Hall for lunch. Once they were a few hundred yards away from the walls and Avery had released his arm Rosier kicked at the ground a few times then spun around, pointing back toward the castle.

“What is his problem? He’s never been like this before! I owled my sister to ask about him after term started so poorly, but she said that at worst he just never cared about Slytherin students. But this is something else!”

Avery had started making a shushing gesture about halfway through Rosier’s speech, but had aborted the effort with his hands thrown up in the air in futility by the end.

“I don’t know. He knows I’m a Parselmouth,” he offered, though the boys probably already knew that as he’d mentioned as much to Lestrange.

“That might be part of it, certainly,” Nott nodded, though Rosier didn’t look satisfied by that explanation. Tom wasn’t really satisfied with it either, actually.

“I’m not sure that’s it though. He was awful from the first moment that he spoke with me about my Hogwarts letter, before I made the mistake of telling him about my ability. I’m sure my . . . guardian told him some stories about my accidental magic, and probably embellished them based on what other children had told her.”

“So he’s blaming you for accidental magic? That’s worse!” Rosier roared. Nott cut him a harsh look but it did little to calm the shorter boy.

“You said he was awful,” Lestrange interjected. “What do you mean by that? The type of attention he has shown you in classes?”

Tom let out a tense breath, looking upwards as he recalled the events of that summer day. “Not exactly. He said things all wrong, all jumbled, and deliberately allowed me to mistakenly think that he was taking me away to have me institutionalised.” He paused, considering their expressions, wondering if he had to explain that in non-muggle terms, but they seemed to understand. Then again, madness surely also existed in the non-muggle world. “Finally he explained that magic existed, and demonstrated by—” he hesitated briefly while considering his word choice “—by burning all my worldly possessions. Well, pretending to, and allowing me to think that the fire was real for a good minute.”

Rosier’s expression had morphed from outrage to something even darker, and the others were aghast. He wasn’t done yet though. “And then he somehow knew that there were things in my room that belonged to other children and threatened me should I not return them, though I have no idea how he knew since the children themselves hadn’t even realised the items were missing. And there were all sorts of thinly-veiled threats about having me expelled or throwing me into Azkaban if I did anything he didn’t like.”

He thought he had summarized everything, though it was possible he had missed a detail or two. It felt freeing but also terrifying to speak so openly about those events.

Rosier abruptly fell to the ground with a huff and ripped up clumps of grass, throwing them into the breeze. “How have you not killed him yet.”

Nott sighed, but also sat down next to his friend, then the rest of the boys followed.

“You know that attempted murder wouldn’t solve anything,” he replied through another sigh.

“Might not be ‘attempted,’” he muttered, ripping up more grass.

“We’ll continue as we are, and the regard of the rest of the school will serve as some buffer of protection. And you should mention something to Slughorn in your meeting with him before the holidays,” he added.

Tom nodded. He’d seen something about that posted on the notice board that weekend, along with the sign-up sheet for the winter hols. “Keep it suitably vague, I suppose? What would be appropriate, even?”

Nott looked over at Avery, who had kept his eyes on Rosier while following the conversation. “Mention that you’re working hard in all your classes, and that you’re concerned about falling behind in Transfiguration. You don’t want him to be disappointed in you as a Slytherin. Say that you’re certain you’re getting top marks but you aren’t earning any house points, so you want to be sure. He’ll eat it right up, and will have a few—well, many, I suppose as it’s him—words with Dumbledore on your behalf.” Nott was nodding along as the other boy spoke, in obvious agreement.

“He’s a _teacher_ , for Merlin’s sake. It’s _disgusting_ ,” Rosier spat, still looking down at the patchy grass, though his green-stained hands were finally still.

They all sat in silence then, letting that statement linger. All of them his varying expressions of upset on their faces, and Tom was sure his didn’t look much better. But then something complicated was going on in Lestrange’s mind, judging by the tensing and shifting of the muscles around his eyes.

“You said something else,” he began softly. “You said that he somehow knew. That there was no way for him to know that those things weren’t yours, and yet he did.”

Tom nodded, then stopped. He thought back to the big project he’d done since just after the start of term, that Lestrange had witnessed those weeks after weeks in the library. He thought about one of the specialties of Salazar Slytherin, since he’d had to look up the strange word.

“Legilimency.” And as he said it, he knew. Those hard, blue eyes that watched him, all the time. He knew.

Lestrange had apparently come to the same conclusion on his own since there was no reaction from him at the word.

There was hysterical laughter coming from Rosier now, and Tom looked over to see him leaned back, his eyes wild. Nott and Avery looked both concerned and angry, and were reaching out to hold his arms. But his laughter continued. “ _Really?_ Are you all hearing how insane this all sounds? How are you all—what do we even _do_ if a man like _that_ is _inside our minds!?_ ”

Avery’s face shifted into an expression of hardness; it could have been carved from granite. “We protect ourselves. We’re Slytherins. It’s what we do.”

* * *

_Those things. About Dumbledore. They happened?_

It was the first time that Tom had heard the voice in weeks, and had been a full five days since that conversation with his dorm mates out on the Hogwarts lawn on the last day before the chill set in. He had almost forgotten about it, what with everything else that had happened, except that he had still felt that slight warm pressure at the back of his mind.

Tom resumed adding his name to the list of students staying at the castle over the hols, after the momentary distraction, then double checked the time of his meeting with Slughorn before heading to the dorm room for some privacy. Seeing that it was empty, he sat on his bed and responded.

“They did. He hates me so much, I didn’t need to embellish anything,” he said, his mouth twisting.

There was a long wait. Then, _This is strange._

Tom rolled his eyes. Weeks of silence, and that was all? “Where were you?”

_I’ve been . . . drifting, for so long. Unconnected. Scattered. Being anchored is different. You have been . . . different. I’m trying to understand._

Weeks of silence, and now the voice was practically verbose. “What are you trying to understand?” He honestly didn’t have the first clue what the voice was talking about, it was all so vague.

_You are Tom Riddle. That man is Dumbledore. I saw pieces. . . ._

Tom frowned. “Are you not here all the time then, if you only see pieces?”

More silence. _I’m not sure._ Another pause. _Things aren’t . . . connected. Nick might also go outside if he’s allowed in the Hunt._

Tom blinked. Then blinked again. “What??” he blurted out at the non sequitur.

_We were talking about ghosts._

“We were?” he asked, bewildered, then remembered. “That was months ago!”

_Was it? Oh. Er. Right then._

Tom shook his head, then rubbed a hand over his face while he thought. “How did you get here? And how are you talking to me? Why are you attached to me, or ‘anchored,’ or whatever you’re calling it?”

There was quite a long silence here, easily several minutes long, and Tom thought he wasn’t going to get an answer. He started to pull some books as he’d been planning on finishing up some essays today anyhow, and just when he was shutting his trunk he felt the voice finally speak.

_I’m not sure why I’m anchored to you. I haven’t been able to connect to anyone else. I think some others may have sensed me, at times, but I’m not sure. But if I’m not anchored to you, then I’m stuck at the edge of the lake._

_I’m not sure what happened. It’s all so fragmented. Just pieces. White light. Pain._

Tom frowned. “Is there anything else you can tell me? I can look it up if you want,” he offered. He wasn’t sure he wanted something living in his head, especially since he was already planning on keeping a certain Transfiguration professor out.

A pause. _I don’t know._

Tom rolled his eyes. “Well if you change your mind, let me know.” When no other response was forthcoming, he left the room and made his way back to the common room.

When the students had started shifting their attitudes toward him over the past week he’d begun doing some of his classwork in the common room, and that seemed to only help with his treatment within his house. Whereas at the beginning of the week he’d gotten some nods and a few greetings, apart from his dorm mates’ friendliness of course, he had slowly started to have some small, sociable interactions with others in his house.

The girls in his year had stopped by a few times to do some Charms work at a neighbouring table, and Fawley had asked how he directed his levitated items so precisely. Buchanan had offered him her latest issue of _Quidditch Weekly_ after she’d finished with it, which he’d perused briefly just to try to understand what the fuss was about, but politely declined to keep, and most interestingly she was actually friendlier toward him now than she was toward Nott, for whom she always had a ready sneer and contemptuous look. Meliflua had contained her nastiness to only the permanent sneer that she always wore in his presence.

Ingram though. . . .

He wasn’t sure if it was embarrassment, or shame over the words that she’d shared with him, or possibly something else entirely, but she very obviously avoided his presence. When she was forced to sit near him she was unbearably awkward, and he just felt sad. He wasn’t sure that he pitied her, exactly, since he still felt a shadow of the churning sensation in his gut when he saw her, but seeing her jittery gaze, her defeated posture, and the fact that she more often than not chose to sit with her twin in shared Slytherin-Ravenclaw classes rather than with the rest of her house—well, it was certainly telling.

As he chose an empty table and started planning out his essays one of the fifth year prefects was just entering the common room with some of his friends, and Tom watched as Pucey made a detour to stop next to him.

“All right, Riddle?” he asked, casting a look over his class things before his eyes landed on Tom’s.

He nodded. “Yes, thank you,” he replied, bemused.

The older boy gave him a curt nod, then left with the others. Well then.

As he was finishing up one essay and getting started on the second there was a ‘thump’ nearby on the table, and he looked up to spot Lestrange sitting down, having placed a book on the surface.

“My father sent me this. It’s far better than what you’ll find in the library here for this type of subject, at least until you’re ready for advanced studies. He had to order this from across the pond.”

Tom pulled the book closer, then looked up. Before he could say anything though the other boy gave a nod, then rose, saying only, “You should start on that over the holidays,” before leaving the common room.

Tom blinked, then looked down. The words _Protection Charm Your Mind: A Practical Guide to Counter Legilimency_ were written in gold on the obnoxiously magenta cover. He looked at the binding, then the alignment of the pages, scanning over the edges before setting it down again and letting out a quiet breath. The book looked brand new. Lestrange’s father had ordered it from another continent and his dorm mate had just given it to him.

He caught himself. No, maybe the boy was just lending him the book. But still.

He shook himself, and forced himself to focus on the rest of his classwork. The holidays, he had said. That was fair, Tom needed to finish with that book from Nott first anyhow. And he’d also found an interesting set of letters between Rowena Ravenclaw and the architect she had worked with when designing the castle, tucked away in the archival wing of the library, and he needed to finish poring over those.

The remaining weeks passed by in a blur. Of note was his meeting with Slughorn, though it was only noteworthy for the stunned look on his face when Tom had sadly expressed his anxiety that he might possibly be doing badly in Transfiguration. The man was so easy. By the time the half hour meeting concluded he’d been assured no less than six times that he was a model student, and that the man would go speak to the other professor on his behalf to clear the air. The sheer volume of compliments he received was a tad excessive, however.

Most of his classes assigned heavier workloads to be completed over the break, but not so much that he wouldn’t have time to continue with his own projects. And so as he rose on the morning of December 17th and smiled at the frantic packing that was taking place in his dorm room, he felt like he was on the edge of the first real freedom he’d had since August.

Later that morning he accompanied this dorm mates up to the front of the castle where they climbed into carriages pulled by magic, and as he waved them off, a sense of eagerness filled him.

Homework first, then fun, he told himself firmly.

It took the entirety of the weekend and part of Monday to finish his assignments, and he might have been done earlier had he not gone for a long walk along the lake on Saturday after the last of the carriages had departed because the lake had looked so perfect, like glass. And it was a good thing too, as not an hour after he’d returned indoors strong winds had picked up outside, so loud that he could hear it whistling past the windows, and by that evening there was a heavy dusting of white covering the ground and the snow did not let up.

By Monday afternoon his responsibilities to his professors had been taken care of and he took out the copy of _Nature’s Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy_ that he’d been assigned by Nott after he’d finished the prior book about purebloods. It was dry, made of lists of names more than anything, but he’d decided to set aside at least two hours each day to chip away at it.

The Occlumency book, on the other hand, was interesting. It began with an overview of the study, and its various uses beyond protection against Legilimency. Even just that knowledge was fascinating, and he devoured the first few chapters and started the steps of introspection and organisation that evening.

Between those two topics of study he practiced various charms that seemed useful to him, and stumbled across the Feather-Light Charm which he immediately set to work practicing on his trunk. It would be so much easier if it was lighter; if he could manage it, he could even return to Wool’s on foot from King’s Cross in the summer, rather than spending the fare on the Underground.

On Wednesday when Tom ascended to the Great Hall for breakfast he saw that Dumbledore was in the process of hanging vines of holly and clusters of mistletoe, and transfiguring glittering icicles to hang from the walls. He looked entirely too smug, and by that evening’s meal there was softly falling snow that would vanish just below the house banners, and a dozen tall fir trees lining the hall.

That set Tom to wondering what the celebrations would be like here. At Wool’s, during the days leading up to Christmas Day, they’d all be put to work crafting long paper chains, made of bits of paper that had been saved throughout the year, and the tallest among them would have the task—or honour, for some—of stringing them up on the walls. And on the 25th Mrs Cole would bring the radio out into the dining hall and they would all listen to the special Christmas Day radio programme together.

There were three years that he remembered the adults and children all walking up to Brixton market together to look at the pretty coloured lights, the stalls selling toys, and the bizarre spectacle of customers fighting to purchase the turkeys that were hanging on rails above the butcher stalls. A few times Mrs Cole had managed to send off some of the children to St. Peter’s for some hot turkey and gravy, though Tom had only been able to hear all about the experience afterward. And one year a couple who had adopted a girl earlier in the year came by on Christmas Eve and gave them Christmas puddings to share.

He cast his gaze over the occupants in the hall, seeing that many Gryffindors, and handful of Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs, and no more than four Slytherins were present. He supposed he’d certainly be missed by at least one staff member if he were to abstain from Christmas dinner here, though he was sure he would feel uncomfortable attending.

Amid his other studies he found the time to return to the letters in the archival wing of the library, and finally finished them on Christmas Eve. They had been illuminating, to say the least, and had certainly opened his eyes to the number of secrets in the castle that he hadn’t yet discovered. There were many servants’ corridors sprinkled throughout the building, apparently, narrow passages hidden by architectural features and decor, which were probably no longer used as the school employed house-elves, but which could probably serve well as shortcuts and secret passages.

Further to this was some missing piece, something that Salazar had apparently asked the architect to construct, but which the unknown individual had refused. Something that both he and Rowena had alluded to in vague terms, almost as though they didn’t completely understand what the Slytherin founder had wanted, though it sounded as though they were concerned that he had gone ahead and built it anyway.

Well, if there was a secret hidden away in the school that Slytherin himself had built, Tom _had_ to find it.

Ravenclaw had also mentioned a few strange rooms, one of them being a space that they spent a good five years imbuing with sentient magic, which sounded fascinating. A few other locations caught his eye, but the letters referred to them with significantly less detail so he didn’t have as much of a sense of where to start searching for them.

When Tom awoke on Christmas morning he made several faces, dreading the day, but rose and ran through his Occlumency routine as he got ready. He called out, “Happy Christmas,” to the empty room, not sure if the strange voice was listening; he hadn’t heard it at all since they last spoke about it being confused. There was no response.

He suffered through breakfast, where Dumbledore was singing, apparently oblivious to the very stiff nature of Beery’s smile. Though Tom had heard mutterings about the Herbology professor’s love of drama and spectacle, so it was possible that he was less than impressed by Dumbledore’s vocal ability rather than the fact that he was singing at all.

He was torn away from these thoughts though as the sounds of flapping alerted the hall of the post’s arrival, and Tom spotted an owl winging toward him.

As it swooped overhead it dropped a package wrapped in heavy paper that was decorated in thin stripes of black and silver. The contents were soft, and malleable, like a textile of some sort, and the sealed note stuck to the top of the package was addressed to him in Nott’s hand. He couldn’t help but allow a tiny smile to show on his face, though he hid it behind his cup as he took a hasty drink. He hurried through the rest of his breakfast in order to rush back to the common room.

He didn’t bother to walk all the way to the dormitory, as there was no one at all in the dungeons currently, and Tom carefully peeled open the note.

> _Dear Riddle,_
> 
> _Greetings and well wishes on this first Yuletide and Christmas of our acquaintance. May your season be healthful, and your New Year candle burn bright._
> 
> _Your Allies_

Below the message was the crest of the Nott family, which Tom recognized from the boy’s trunk, and his outdoor cloak, and his socks, and from the countless letters he exchanged with his family, but ‘allies’ surely meant the other boys as well.

He put down the note. He hadn’t ever received a Christmas gift before.

He carefully unwrapped the paper, setting it aside, and looked at the contents of the package. There within the wrappings was a long scarf, a heavy knit made of the softest wool he’d ever felt, in a green so dark it was almost black. It felt warm to the touch, warmer than could be accounted for by the ambient temperature in the common room.

His lips were pressed together tightly and he just looked at the scarf, unable to move, to think in coherent thoughts. A good five minutes passed, slowly, calmly, before he finally shut his eyes, taking a deep breath, then he rose to put the gift away securely in his room. The note was propped up on his bedside table.

He remained tucked away in the Slytherin dungeons for the rest of the day, cozy in front of the fire, reading his favourites of _The Canterbury Tales_ and enjoying the warm embrace of familiarity they brought. In the late afternoon, still a good hour before the feast was due to start, the school bell started up a clamour unlike he’d heard from it before, and when it didn’t seem to be letting up he sighed, putting his things away and ascending to the Great Hall.

When he arrived he saw that the head table had been removed, and instead on the raised platform at the front of the hall there were decorated false walls, ornate furniture, lush carpets, and twinkling lights, like something out of a play.

In place of the house tables there was one long table placed parallel to the temporary stage. He took a seat with the other Slytherins, asking under his breath, “What’s all this then?”

“The annual panto,” replied a boy a few years above him. “Beery puts one on every year. Try to avoid letting him know you stay during the hols, otherwise he may volunteer you next year.”

Tom was intrigued. He knew about the Christmas pantomimes in London, of course, though no one from Wool’s had ever attended one. He looked around at their table which looked to be mostly full. Compared to the students he’d seen at meals so far this week, however, there appeared to be several missing, mostly Gryffindors.

“Are they any good?” he asked.

The boy made a complicated sort of grimace, and looked pained. A girl next to him spoke up. “They’re not _that_ terrible. They’re common, yes, but sometimes one of the actors takes liberties, and then they all need to improvise and pretend that it was planned that way all along, while Beery tries not to pass out from the stress. He’s quite invested.”

She was drumming her fingers on the table, appearing impatient in a casual sort of way. “Walburga’s in this one. She actually volunteered though, after how spectacularly last year’s fell apart when Weasley lit the ‘mule hog’ instead of the ‘Yule log.’”

Tom remembered seeing another girl in the house who shared some of the features of this girl. “Your . . . sister?” he asked, trying to place her.

“Cousin. Though I’m sure the family will find a way to make us sisters once we’re all out of school,” she added. She held a hand out to him, leaning across the older boy who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else. “Lucretia Black,” she said, introducing herself.

He took her hand and shook it. “Tom Riddle.”

At that moment the torches in the hall dimmed, and a spectacle stranger than he could have imagined began. It had elements of Arthurian legend, with an undercurrent of something mystical about fairies, but also a horror plot involving an erkling, the Sorting Hat, and a Wizengamot member who had fallen victim to a mishap with a de-ageing potion.

There was plenty of laughter, which grew more and more pronounced as the show went on, as the professors at their table grew more and more rosy-cheeked, and Beery appeared increasingly distressed. Finally, as the last few lines of dialogue were spoken and the moral was shared—Beery was making frantic gestures toward the performers who were all ignoring him, while a Gryffindor cheerfully announced that the meaning of Christmas was ‘chipolatas’—food appeared on the platters in front of them, and everyone broke out into applause.

Grinning, he turned back toward Black. “So it’s always like that?” he asked, bemused.

She was nodding enthusiastically. “Well, I’m only in third year and this is my second time staying over, but from what my cousins tell me he’s been putting on the holiday panto for at least fifteen years. I’m not sure if he writes them, or if he gets his victims to contribute to them beyond just the performance, but I think they’re fantastic.” When her neighbour let out a loud sigh she elbowed him. “Chin up, Flume.”

The meal carried on in light spirits and Tom felt the last bit of unease dissipate. When he finally returned to the dorms later that night and settled into bed, he still had felt a small smile curling his lips.

_You seem happy._

Tom snuggled underneath the covers. He was content. He’d been content before, but it had always been much more fleeting. “Today was a good day.”

_You must be pleased. Everyone wants to talk to you now._

There was something odd in the tone that Tom couldn’t quite place. He frowned, puzzled, but then shrugged. The voice was too difficult to read without a face attached. “I suppose. I know it’s not real, deep down, but it’s better than it was. I’d be foolish to throw it away.”

There was a tendril of uncertainty wrapped around the next words, which repeated his own. _You know it’s not real._

He felt the need to explain, in that moment. “I do. They’re talking to me now because apparently I have an important ancestor. So one person a thousand years ago in my bloodline is more important than who my parents were, or weren’t. But before they knew about that, who my parents were, or weren’t, was more important than me. The past is more important to them than the present. Which is so backwards. They should care about the future more than anything.”

He could feel his body becoming tense and he forced himself to relax. This had been a good day. He wanted that to last. Maybe he could even make it last until his birthday.

_I’m . . . sorry. I’m still trying to adjust. You’re different._

“Different from what?”

_From what I remember._

Tom rolled from his side onto his back and stared at the bed hangings. “Are you someone that I used to know?” he asked, uncertain.

_I . . . don't think so. Not yet. Then._

Tom shook his head a little. He was sure which the voice was more: confused, or confusing.

_You say that they should care most about the future. What future do you care about?_

Tom shut his eyes and allowed his mind to drift through various thoughts, possibilities. “I don’t want to have to rely on others. I hated it at Wool’s, and I hate it here, in a different way. The boys are nice, I’m seeing that, but it’s not real. I’ve only ever been able to depend on myself, and trust myself, so I want to be able to live my life on my terms.”

He thought that made sense, but when the voice spoke up he wasn’t sure that he’d made his point clear. _That sounds lonely,_ it commented.

“I don’t mean that I want to be a hermit and never see people again. I just. . . . At Wool’s I had to hope that I got to the food before the others, since they’d purposely take extra so that I’d go without. I had to make my own amusement, since I never got the toys that the others did, and I was excluded from all their games. I had to rely on the adults who were supposed to be in charge of my care to clothe me, to feed me, to keep me safe, but they did what they could to pretend I wasn’t there. Here I’m perfectly capable of doing well in my studies on my own, but I have to depend on other students vouching for me just to get the time of day from the people who should be my peers.”

He swallowed. “I want a future when I can put all of this unfairness behind and _do_ things because I have every right to, and not need to find loopholes in social contracts first. Where I can trust people to not just want to use me.”

There was silence from the voice then. Tom extinguished his wandlight, suddenly exhausted. Finally, as he was fading, he heard its parting words. _You’re very different. I need to check some things. I’ll try not to get too scattered. I’ll return._

There was a strange shifting in the back of his mind, as if the source of the voice was moving, a sensation that left him feeling bereft. And then he was asleep.


	5. Chapter 5

Before he knew it the remainder of the holidays had passed, and the day following his birthday—a lonely affair all told, as not even the voice was there—the Hogwarts Express brought the students back to school.

The heavy snows had finally stopped on Boxing Day and hadn’t started again, so after bundling up against the cold he decided to meet his dorm mates at the station and ride the carriage with them back to the front doors.

“Riddle!” Rosier exclaimed, slinging an arm around his shoulders while the others gathered round. “We were just wondering if you’d expired of boredom here on your own. So glad to see you’re alive!”

Nott appeared to be his usually haughty self, and Avery wandered over from another group of students that he’d presumably travelled up to the castle with, while Lestrange looked almost tired—probably weary of Rosier’s abundant energy.

“How was everyone’s break?” he asked the group as they trooped into the castle and down to the dungeons.

The boys shared stories of their various families’ celebrations, and Tom was just muttering a quiet ‘Hiems Celia’ as Nott mentioned that his father had been busy working on a project over much of the break. They were sitting down on two of the sofas when Tom looked over at the tallest of their group and said, “Thank you for the scarf, by the way. It’s very warm.”

Nott nodded as if it was nothing, but Rosier grinned. As conversation fell into a lull, Tom added, “By the way, why did no one warn me about the annual panto?”

Joking and laughter carried them through until dinner, and then after the feast they returned to their dorm room. Once the door shut behind them Nott asked, “How are you making out with that book?”

Tom paused a moment while he thought of both the pureblood book and the one about Occlumency, then figured he was asking about the former. “I’ve read it twice. I also have an idea of at least some of the families that have children attending Hogwarts right now. And I met Lucretia Black over the hols.”

The other boy was nodding. “Which other students can you name?” he asked. Rosier was leaned back against one of his bedposts, tapping his full belly happily and looking sleepy, while Lestrange and Avery were more actively paying attention.

“There’s you all, of course. Also Fawley in our year in Slytherin. In the other houses for first year there’s Clarus Flint in Ravenclaw, then Abbott, Smith, and Selwyn in Hufflepuff, and Gryffindor has . . .” He thought, trying to place the various names that he’d heard over the last term. “Macmillan?”

Nott nodded, while Avery added, “You should also know who of the ones you haven’t listed are still married into the families in some way, but we’ll get to that. How about in the other years?”

“Lucretia and Walburga Black in our house, and at least one of them is in third year. The Head Girl Yaxley. There was a male Weasley here last year, but I’m not sure if he’s still here—” 

“He is,” Avery interjected.

“That’s it so far. I’m not really sure how to visually recognize them, and we don’t have any mixed-year classes.”

“That’s a good enough start,” Nott replied, not looking concerned. “You didn’t miss any in our year, and we’ll identify others you should be aware of at meals. You will need to pay attention to the full sorting next year and beyond, so that you can recognize the important families as soon as they come here.”

Tom was nodding, but all of this talk of names, and families, and the book made him remember something that had been nagging at him. “I was wondering though, what’s the deal with Buchanan?”

Rosier at that moment rose and mumbled something about the lavatory, while Avery scoffed and started unpacking his trunk. Lestrange wore a lazily curious expression and watched while Nott’s face went frigid.

“What do you mean.”

Tom briefly considered backpedaling but discarded that idea after a moment, seeing this as a decent enough opening. “I mean, ever since you ‘spread the word’ about me everyone’s been at least decent, including her, and I’d thought she was always in a dour mood. But she has been all right toward me.”

“Then what’s the problem. Enjoy it,” Nott said flatly.

“But she still seems to have a problem with you,” Tom continued. “I thought at first she had a problem with me, and was giving you all these looks because you were talking to me, but that’s not it.” As the words came out he had the sense that he was stepping into something that wasn’t his business, but they were making pureblood politics his business, so he rationalised that they should have expected these sorts of observations. And Lestrange didn’t look too upset; on the contrary, he looked to be following the dialogue with more than mild interest.

“Her family’s just bitter that they didn’t end up in the directory,” Nott said, sounding short.

Tom tilted his head. “And that has something to do with you, specifically?”

There was absolute silence in the room then, and it looked as though Nott’s face could have shattered like glass if struck, it was so stiff. Suddenly there was a small huff of laughter, breaking the tension, as Lestrange rose to his feet. “You should call me Tancred,” he said through a casual smile, looking over at Tom. “I’m off to the common room to do some reading.”

“Call me Tom,” he returned in a daze, peripherally aware of the boy leaving the dorm while Nott was still having some sort of crisis.

Finally, having come to some sort of decision, Nott also rose to his feet. “Excuse me,” he said, before snatching a quill and some parchment from his bedside table and walking stiffly out into the corridor.

Hearing movement off on the other side of the room Tom looked over toward Avery’s corner, where he was organizing his things once more, having apparently paused when everything had stilled. Not sensing imminent conversation from that direction he reached over next to his bed and grabbed the _Pure-Blood Directory_ , flipping through it again, trying to figure out if he’d missed something. Surely he had.

He spent about twenty minutes going over the chapter on the Nott family again, and quickly skimmed through to see if there was anything at all listed mentioning the Buchanans, but there wasn’t. Perhaps the family name had changed? He flipped back to the front insert to check the publishing date. 1933. So, it was a rather recent work. He pursed his lips, shutting the book and flipping it from one hand to another.

Deciding to see if he could get anything out of Lestrange—Tancred now, he mused—he rose to his feet and left for the common room.

As he reached the end of the dormitory corridor he saw that his dormmate was sitting at a table facing toward the common room entrance, but Nott appeared to also be there, standing over him, facing away. Tom was about to approach when he heard his name and paused, staying in the shadows cast by the cupboard against the wall.

“Riddle’s still a stranger.”

“I think he’s ready,” Tancred replied, his tone casual, his gaze focused on the book in front of him and looking as though he was ignoring Nott entirely.

“Rayner’s not sure.”

“And since when does he do your thinking for you,” was the mild reply.

Nott didn’t seem to know what to say to that. Finally, he said, “Why are you resting so much expectation on him? You don’t know him, even if he is—” then his voice turned to a hiss “—Slytherin’s Heir.”

Tancred flipped a page. “He’s shown that he’s tenacious, when it comes to uncovering information, and I could see him demonstrating that in other ways. He’s also shown brilliance, and I’d hate for us to ignore that.”

“Brilliance? So you’ll be courting Ravenclaws next?”

“Yes, brilliance. There are people who see the obvious. There are people who see the subtle. And then there’s Tom, who sees what _might_ be. And then he goes for it. He’s clearly determined, and I personally wish to be there when he makes things happen, whether it’s next month or next year, possibly beyond that.”

Tom was staring, but Nott was already responding. “You don’t even know what he’s planning. It could go against everything you—everything _we_ stand for.”

“I very much doubt that.” He turned another page then looked up and shrugged. “I’m interested anyway. And you can tell Avery that if Tom’s plans aren’t ones he’d agree with, then he’d be best off watching him regardless.”

As he could see Tancred gazing in his direction Tom emerged from the shadows and approached the table, hoping he wasn’t betraying anything with his expression. Nott didn’t exactly startle when he noticed Tom but his back straightened the tiniest bit and his arms stiffened.

“I’m off to the owlery to post a letter,” Nott said shortly, before giving them small nods and leaving the common room.

Tom watched him leave, worrying his lip, then sad down. “Should I be apologising to him?”

The other boy was shaking his head while he was still speaking. “You haven’t done anything wrong. He realised that he was being sloppy, overconfident. That’s why he’s upset.” He turned back to his book.

“I was hoping I could ask you about this,” Tom started, sliding the directory onto the table. “About the question I had in the dorms? Or should I save that for somewhere else?”

Tancred looked up with a steady gaze, cocked his head, then leaned back in his chair. “You tell me.”

Tom huffed. A test. “This book was published recently. Very recently.” A nod, so he continued. “Was there an incident, or some event that happened after it was published? If one family is that miffed at just not being listed. . . .”

Tancred was nodding. “Sure, to a degree. Some families stopped being invited to dinners. Some families reestablished alliances after generations of separation. So many letters were being sent in to the _Prophet_ that they had to shut down the editorial department for two months to sort through it all, supposedly.” He was giving him an expectant look, one which reminded Tom of the time not so long ago that they’d been in the library talking about Parseltongue.

He considered, then shook his head. “That’s not it.” He looked down at the book, flipped open the cover to look at the insert once more, then shut it again. He spun it, looked at the spine, then looked briefly at the back cover before setting it back down with the front cover facing upward. “Who wrote it?”

The funny smile was back. “What would you do with the information?” he countered.

Tom was the one to lean back now, as he thought the question over. Another test. Or lesson, he supposed. 

“ _If_ I knew who wrote it,” he began slowly, and the funny little smile grew a quarter of an inch, “I’d hold onto that information, as it was not freely and openly given to me. But if that person betrayed me, or declared me an enemy in some way, then I’d wield it as a weapon to protect myself.”

He gave a small nod and looked down at his own book again, though Tom could see that the small smile remained. “I knew you were ready.”

With that he knew that he’d passed the test. And he also supposed he knew, if Nott’s erratic behaviour over the past hour was any indication, who had the likeliest ties to the directory’s author. He could see why the author wouldn’t necessarily want themselves known, if families had been broken apart by the whole affair, but it also seemed a bit foolish given that he’d made the connection this easily. Or it just pointed toward these pureblood children being a liability to their parents.

He thought back to September when he’d been with Selwyn on the train, and she’d made the passing comment that she wasn’t at Hogwarts to play in her parents’ politics. That seemed like a rather wise comment, in retrospect.

But then again, to ignore those politics while they were inevitably happening around them all anyway. . . . That was its own foolishness.

He was drawn out of his musings as Tancred shut his book and stretched. As the other boy was rising Tom said, “I finished with that Occumency text. I can give it to you now if you like?”

He shook his head. “Pass it on to Rhys next, he could benefit the most out of all of us with his quick temper. I’ve already learned the ability. I brought a more advanced text from home if you feel ready for that?” he offered.

Tom nodded, also rising to his feet. They made their way back to the dorm room together, and after the other boys had returned as well they all finally went to sleep.

* * *

January sped by in a flurry of snow, assignments, Occlumency practice, and culture lessons, and when he had time to spare away from his dorm mates he went on long walks around the castle. He’d found a few of the old servant passages over the break and had shown them to the other boys, and they made frequent use of them to bypass crowds and cut minutes off of their travel time between classes. He continued his searching for the secrets that he’d read about in the architect’s letters, slowly and methodically.

The advanced Occlumency book that Tancred loaned him was interesting. While the first one had introduced methods of taking an inventory of one’s thoughts and organising them, so that they could be tucked away on command, this one described different methods of building passive mental defences, of springing memory traps, and even of presenting false memories. Tom knew that some of the techniques were beyond him at this point, but he liked the idea of maintaining passive barriers that would catch prying even if he wasn’t aware it was happening.

The dynamic between Tom and Nott had returned to normal, and at times he could tell the other boy was trying to be a bit more friendly, more casual than his more aloof nature of the previous term, though it didn’t seem entirely sincere. Still, he appreciated the effort. 

Finally, as the end of February approached, Rosier burst into the library where Tom and Tancred were just sitting down after Saturday breakfast. “You two!” he called, nearly knocking over the diminutive librarian and stopping at their corner, his breath coming in gasps as if he’d run all the way there. “Don’t think you’re getting out of it that easily.” He looked at them expectantly, and flapped his hands at their blank looks. “Quidditch! Come _on_!”

Tom flicked his eyes over to his library companion who looked completely unimpressed, but after a sigh even he was standing and gathering his things. “Fine. Who is it again, Ravenclaw? How’s their team this year?”

Tom rose too, trailing behind them. He hoped the game wouldn’t be too long.

“Fairly strong. They didn’t bring in any fresh blood so their plays are solid, but three of them are in their N.E.W.T.s year so I’m sure that’s putting strain on them. But our team has two new Chasers so Ravenclaw doesn’t know what they’re up against, in terms of strategy, and Mulciber’s _fast_ , so it could go either way. They got stomped by Hufflepuff though.”

“So you’re saying it won’t be a short game.” Tom smirked; it seemed Tancred’s thoughts ran parallel to his.

By the time they had grabbed their cloaks and gone up to the stands he was almost looking forward to the match starting just so that Rosier would take a break from talking his ear off, but it seemed that he was in for more talking as the instant the Quaffle was tossed in the air the other boy had started up again, though at a much faster clip than before, giving the game’s commentator some competition. 

Finally, when one of the Keepers made some sort of spectacular save and Rosier _shrieked_ Tancred put a hand on his shoulder. “Please. If you keep this up I’m going back to the library.”

He shut his mouth abruptly, though he was still bouncing in his seat alarmingly, and when the Slytherin Seeker did a celebratory loop around the pitch while holding a tiny fluttering golden ball in the air some two hours later, Rosier was up on his feet screaming, pure joy radiating from his face. Tom shared a look with the other boy, smiling in amusement, as they both also stood, clapping while the Slytherins in the stands around them cheered.

They trudged back to the castle through snow and made their way to the common room, where there were drinks and snacks laid out on many of the tables. Rosier poked him and said, “This is another reason to go to the Quidditch games. Party afterward!”

“Only if our house wins,” an upper year nearby pointed out.

The common room grew more and more crowded, the noise level increasing beyond anything Tom had heard in here before, and at some point someone had turned on a wireless as there was definitely music playing. Suddenly cheers erupted again as a group of red-cheeked students came tumbling through the common room entrance, only to have several of their house mates push forward and slap them on the back.

Tom had no idea where Tancred and Rosier had disappeared to, but there was no escaping the common now, not with the crowd blocking the only exit. He moved back toward the far wall, grabbing a drink, and watched.

“It is good to see the young so full of joy,” a gloomy voice spoke from nearby, and Tom turned to see the Bloody Baron drifting over. “It can be so rare a thing, once departed from these walls.”

Unbidden, Tom’s eyes flicked down toward the blood stains that covered the ghost’s robes. The Baron evidently noticed, since he spoke again. “Ah, yes, the foolishness of my own lifetime. Do not repeat my mistakes in yours.” And with that ominous statement he drifted away, through a few second years, then through the ceiling.

Tom shivered. Finished with his drink and completely lacking in appetite he went to the dormitory to continue his work there.

* * *

Winter slowly came to a close, with each week a touch warmer and wetter than the last, Easter hols came and went, and then it was May, with fragrant blooms in the trees of the small orchard next to the gamekeeper’s hut, while the plants that they worked with in the greenhouses became more and more feisty.

It was nearing the end of May when Tom realised that Empire Day was fast approaching, and he wondered what that meant for them here at Hogwarts. At Wool’s that had been one of the two most important days of the year, that and Christmas; it was the one day that they were all required to breakfast together and then sing _God Save the King_ and _Jerusalem_ , then walk as a group up to Hyde Park to watch the parade and wave small hand-drawn flags, rain or shine.

The day before, he asked the boys about it after their Charms class let out. When he was graced with nothing but blank looks, he considered, then re-framed the question.

“How does our ministry interact with the muggle government?”

Avery shrugged. “The Minister talks to theirs if it’s needed, I think. We gave them warning when Grindelwald started making waves. I think that’s the extent of it though; if our people need to clean up a mess with Obliviators, or Aurors, then we take care of it, and they don’t know any better.”

Tom nodded, in thought. “And the royal family?”

Some disinterested shrugs in response. After leaving his things in his room he made his excuses and left, wandering the castle, lost in thought.

It was just so odd to him for the Crown, which was so integral to the identity of a Briton, at least as he understood it, to be absent in this part of the nation. He felt as though the entire history of England, of Britain, of the United Kingdom, all of it, was developed through the feuds and alliances with the royals, so similarly to how the pureblood politics dictated the ways of Magical Britain.

Was the monarchy disregarded because it was a separate history with separate bloodlines? Or just because they were muggles, and worth ignoring?

As he was ruminating he saw something shift in his peripheral vision, and stopped, facing the wall where a door had appeared. He took a quick look around, orienting himself, as he hadn’t been focusing on where he was even walking. Based on the decor he was somewhere on the seventh floor.

And the door had just . . . appeared. Was it another house’s common room?

He waited, but the door didn’t open, nor did it vanish again, so he reached out and tentatively opened it. 

And stared.

Collecting his thoughts he looked around at the corridor to find it still empty of other students, so he slowly entered the room and shut the door behind him.

It was a large circular room with daylight filtering in from above through a skylight, illuminating a rich red rug, and enormous portraits with thick golden frames. And the portraits were not moving; a few of them however were familiar, and one was the spitting image of a black and white photograph that Tom _knew_ was hanging high on the wall in the dining hall at Wool’s.

He slowly turned, taking in the room. That was definitely a portrait of King George VI, a few places over was one of King George V, and a few places over was a portrait of Queen Victoria, there was no doubt about it.

On another section of wall there was an immense tapestry covered in tiny names, and even tinier dates, linked together with series of solid and dotted lines. As he traced a few of them, his fingers hovering an inch away from the fabric, he realised it was a genealogy of the royal family, certainly back as far as the War of the Roses if the section covered in criss-crossing lines was any indication, if not even farther.

There was an ornate gramophone in the corner, and as he looked at it, it started playing the immediately-identifiable opening notes of _Jerusalem_.

“What on earth. . . .” he whispered.

He went to sit down on the rug and started when a small cushion appeared from nothing right under him. He let himself relax, gazing up at the painted figures, letting his mind drift, as the song came to a close.

The gramophone then started up _Land of Hope and Glory_. A feeling of warmth settled over him.

As the fanfare shifted into a more melodic theme and the rumble of singing voices could be heard over the orchestra, the warmth built in the back of his head.

_I must have been gone longer than expected. What even is this place?_

Tom’s eyes had drifted shut but they snapped open and his back straightened instantly. “You’re back? You’re back.”

_Some amusement filtered through. I’m back. I wouldn’t have taken you for such a patriot._

Tom felt affronted. “Excuse you. I’m not some communist.”

A bit more amusement, but then it faded into . . . embarrassment? The music from the gramophone swelled, the choir belting out the final notes.

_I need to remember that my memories . . . my impressions are just a piece of the truth. I’ve been making many assumptions. I’m trying to stop. It’s difficult._

It sounded like an apology, without an actual apology. “Yes, well learning an entirely new world isn’t exactly easy either, but I seem to be doing more or less all right,” he snapped.

More embarrassment then, and sheepishness. Then—

_Er, why’s the Queen missing?_

Tom frowned, then looked up, nodding toward a particular portrait. “She’s right there. In the funny white hat veil thing.” The gramophone was now playing _Rule, Britannia_.

_No, not Victoria. I mean—oh right, forget I said anything._

The little spot at the back of his mind was almost buzzing with nervous energy. Tom decided to ignore its bumbling. It seemed really out of sorts being in this room.

“You said you had to leave to look into things. Did you figure out whatever it was that you were looking for?”

 _I think so,_ the voice responded slowly. _I needed to take another look at my memories, at things that I saw before things went wrong. And . . . I realised that I’d been pretty blinded to certain things that had a large influence in my life. Time gives you perspective._

“And that explains why you seem fixated on the fact that I’m not what you expected, whatever that means?” Tom asked skeptically.

_It does. It doesn’t really explain what I’ll do when I catch up to things, or when things catch up to me, but that’s not something I have any control over._

And that meant nothing at all to Tom. Frustrated, he asked, “Is there anything you can say that isn’t infuriatingly vague?”

There was silence for a good while, but he had grown accustomed to these long pauses in the few actual conversations he’d had with this entity. Another regimental march started up on the gramophone, one with a name that Tom couldn’t recall at the moment.

_I think I’d like to know you a bit more before I divulge anything that could . . . put people in danger._

Tom’s initial reaction was to feel insulted, but that faded fairly quickly once he realised that he could appreciate the caution. Even though as the person being excluded from the information in this case he of course wanted to know everything. But he gave a nod of understanding.

A few more minutes passed, until finally the voice asked, _So what’s with this room? Is the school year over? Are you visiting Buckingham Palace or something?_

Tom explained how and why he’d found the room, and the voice agreed with his opinion that it seemed like a strange place to have in Hogwarts. As they finally left the room some time later Tom noticed the door vanish back into the wall as it closed. He frowned; why would a room full of muggle portraits be kept hidden?

He thought back to when the door had appeared. He hadn’t said anything, so it couldn’t respond to a spoken password. The voice seemed to pick up on its thoughts and suggested that he replicate what he was doing and thinking when he first noticed the door.

Tom replied that he’d just been thinking about the royal family, but nevertheless returned to that area of concentration while he paced in the corridor, and stopped when a door reappeared on the wall.

Well, that was interesting.

He opened the door just to be sure and saw the same room that they’d just left, except—

_Oh. Er, whoops._

Tom wasn’t sure what the voice was referring to at first, until his gaze fell on a new portrait that hadn’t been there previously. He frowned.

_It seems to have picked up on me._

Tom nodded, another thought forming.

 _It must not just be an already-decorated room that appears when people want to look at the royal family._ The voice echoed his own thought. _Which would be a weird thing for the castle to have anyway, but stranger things have happened._

Tom left the room, shut the door behind him, then started pacing again, this time thinking of his dormitory as the first thing that came to mind. The door appeared. He opened it, revealing a duplicate of his room in the dungeons. He let the door close and vanish once more, then let out a slow breath.

_Wow._

Wow.

He backed away, then turned to walk toward the stairs. He didn’t say anything further to the voice as he started to notice other students about, as the final class block of the day must have ended while he was in the room. He ventured outside toward the edge of the lake, taking in the pale grey clouds and faint misting of rain as he walked alongside the muddy slope.

“I think I know what that room was,” he said finally, when his thoughts were under control and he was certain that there wasn’t anyone within earshot.

There was a feeling of curiosity from the voice.

“I found some correspondence. Rowena Ravenclaw and an unnamed architect wrote letters. There was a room that they poured magic into, sentient magic, they said, over a period of years. And that room. . . .”

He wanted to know how it worked. All of its rules. Figure out how to use that same magic, so that he could just _make_ anything that he wanted at any time. Never go wanting again.

He could show his friends . . . but they weren’t his friends, were they. Well, Tancred maybe, since he enjoyed the quiet company of the boy and they were on a first name basis, and still now he supported Tom even when the others were more hesitant. But he wanted this secret just for himself, at least for now.

Well, and the voice.

“I want to know what all can appear in there. Does it come from somewhere? Maybe—maybe I don’t need to be poor.”

_There must be some limits on a place like that. Just think of the fallout if anyone could just want gold and get it._

There were sometimes that the voice used strange words, but Tom tried to ignore that. “I suppose. Or maybe the gold wouldn’t be legal tender, or the goblins would recognize it as fake, and I’d end up in a world of trouble. But I’m sure there’s something I could do there, some way to use the room.”

He stayed out at the lakeside for another thirty minutes, watching the surface ripple with each droplet of rain, then made his way back to the castle, drying off quickly before heading to dinner.

He didn’t get a chance to further investigate the room until his free Friday afternoon, and after dozens of different types of rooms, and much commentary from the voice, Tom stumbled upon a treasure trove. An endless room of _things_.

He shut the door, then requested that same space again with the parameter that the door remain hidden from the corridor, then ducked inside, looking greedily around. If the items here didn’t vanish once he left school grounds, the possibilities. . . .

There were larger items, including stacks of furniture, statues, and animal cages in varying sizes. There were veritable mountains of books, which he’d need to investigate further. But on surfaces all around his eyes caught little glints and glimmers of light from jewelry, metalware, armour, and so, so much more.

Jewelry. There was so much of it here haphazardly strewn across the rest of the contents of the space, some of it with broken clasps, some with missing stones, but all of it definitely worth _something_ if he were to take a few pieces and pawn them in muggle London.

He could be charming when he wanted to be.

He took his timing walking around, selecting a few pieces that would be small and easy to conceal, and avoiding anything that seemed to feel . . . off. The little voice didn’t object, or really say anything at all. It seemed to just be watching.

Tom finally stopped when he had an assortment of several rings and two necklaces, not wanting to be too greedy, too hasty. With those items tucked away inside his robes he took one last look around. If he was able to get some coin for these items, then summers at Wool’s would be a little less unbearable.

* * *

Before the exam season was underway Slughorn held a final round of individual meetings with the students of his house. As Tom had consistently been one of the top point earners for his year, if not for his house, he was not at all worried heading into his meeting.

As it happened however there was a matter that he’d needed some clarification on, and while he didn’t necessarily want to bring the matter up with a prefect, or even worse, Yaxley, this proved to be the perfect opportunity.

After gracefully accepting the heaps of praise that Slughorn was bestowing on him, Tom braced himself for a subject that had always made him uncomfortable.

“Sir, when Professor Dumbledore brought me my Hogwarts letter last year, he mentioned an assistance fund for Hogwarts students who might not be able to purchase school supplies otherwise.”

“Yes, that’s quite right. The school does have a fund, though it is of course closely monitored by the headmaster and the goblins,” the man replied with an exaggerated serious expression.

“Yes, of course. You see, Professor Dumbledore handed me a pouch of coins last summer so that I could be prepared this year, but he didn’t give me any information on what I’m to do for the rest of my years of schooling.” As he said these words the unpleasant thought dawned on him that perhaps those coins were meant to last him all seven years. But as he thought that, he realised it couldn’t possibly be the case, as there was hardly enough to pay for his items even being frugal. Then again, if it was the case . . . well, the man hadn’t mentioned as much, and it had been a fair assumption on his part.

Slughorn was already patting his arm with a large hand and reassuring him though. “Not to worry, Tom, not to worry. I’ll speak with Armando this evening and he’ll get you all squared away. Now, is there anything else troubling you?”

He considered. Dumbledore had become a little less overtly unpleasant after the winter hols, possibly due to whatever intervention Slughorn had assisted with, though he was not particularly generous with house points either. Not feeling the need to do anything about the man at present Tom shook his head. “No, I think that was everything, sir.”

“Very well, then I will take care of things for you with regards to the fund, and—” here he leaned in, as though sharing a great secret “—if you earn top marks in your exams, there just may be a little surprise for you when school starts up again next year! O-ho!”

Tom restrained himself, the desire to roll his eyes strong but not too overwhelming for him, and instead thanked his head of house. Unless he was very much mistaken it would be an invitation to the Slug Club which, though the idea itself was somewhat repulsive to him, an extension of the advantages for the privileged and subjugation of everyone else, would be an enterprise that could help him actually become something. Hopefully.

The exams were simple enough, with none of the content presenting any sort of challenge, and as he left his Potions practical Slughorn caught him at the door, handing him a letter. “From the headmaster,” the man told him in a stage whisper, a finger tapping the side of his nose. He opened it in private to reveal an authorization letter for him to present to Gringotts on his next visit, and which would remain valid for as long as his name was listed as a registered student with the goblins’ records.

Finally, it was the final feast of the year and as Hufflepuff won the House Cup—though just barely, as they had managed to scrape a win for the Quidditch Cup—and the headmaster stood for some end-of-term announcements, a ‘small reminder’ from the wizard made a chill run down Tom’s spine.

Waiting for the announcements to end and for the conversations in the hall to resume, Tom caught the attention of the group around him and asked quietly, “What did Dippet mean, a reminder about no magic over the summer?”

Nott answered. “Just that. You’re not allowed to cast magic outside of Hogwarts until you’re of age—seventeen. If you do you’ll go through a whole disciplinary process with the Ministry and they can expel you if it’s severe enough. And you don’t want to get expelled before taking your O.W.L.s; they’ll snap your wand.”

Tom gulped. “But. . . .” His plans for the summer were quickly crumbling. “Before starting here I did so much magic. I practiced Charms and Transfiguration through pretty much the entire month of August to make sure I was prepared.

“Best not to admit that so loudly,” Avery said under his breath.

Nott was nodding. “Don’t worry, we’ll talk about it on the train.” His eyes were roving around the area, and flitted briefly up toward the head table before returning to Tom’s. Tom did not follow his gaze.

With that statement Tom didn’t enjoy the meal, and couldn’t help but think about the two long months he’d be spending at Wool’s. He’d planned to pick up his second year texts as soon as he got his list and work through them, as he’d done the previous summer. He’d planned to experiment with a few additional charms he’d found that should improve his journal further. He’d planned to be able to protect himself against the other children’s cruelty.

Back in the dormitory at the end of the feast he sullenly re-packed his trunk, making sure he wasn’t forgetting anything. He spent several minutes looking at the small bundle of jewelry that he’d tucked away in his scarf, a mutinous expression on his face, debating whether he should make another trip up to the Room for some more valuables. But, feeling a sense of unease emanating from that spot in the back of his mind, he decided against it. Greed and pride inevitably led to failure and defeat.

As the other boys took care of their packing and held their own conversations, he found himself lying on his bed, running through his Occlumency practice for lack of anything better to do. When someone stopped by his bed and touched his arm, he pretended he was asleep.

He didn’t exactly feel better about the situation in the morning, but certainly less moody, and so he joined the others for breakfast. As they were all making their way toward the carriages Tancred held him back for a minute.

“Listen,” he began, his voice soft, careful. “You don’t need to talk about it, but I understand that your home life isn’t . . . ideal. Just know that if you want, you’re welcome to visit over the summer. I’ve already spoken to my parents. The Floo address is ‘Lestrange Lake,’ just firecall ahead.”

Tom opened his mouth, closed it, waited a beat, then opened it again. “Thank you, Tancred. I’ll let you know.”

The other boy nodded and carried on toward the rest of the group, who had secured a carriage and waited for them. Finally, some time later, they were aboard the train and hurtling southward toward London.

“So,” Tom said, not sure where to start. “No magic over the summer?”

“Right. The Trace starts as soon as you start Hogwarts, so there is an allowance for wand-usage before school, technically. Once you have the Trace though you need to be very careful. Even wandless, or accidental, magic can land you in quite a bit of trouble,” Nott explained.

“But there are ways around it,” Avery said, taking over. “Casting in an area where there are known adult witches and wizards confuses it, or they just don’t monitor it. Not sure which, but we—” here he gestured to the rest of the boys, minus Tom “—can cast at home if our parents permit us, and the Ministry assumes it’s our parents who are using magic.”

“Places like the Alleys, or Hogsmeade, are fine too,” Rosier piped up. “Well, don’t let anyone _see_ you, mind, since you’re obviously not of age, _but_. . . .”

“And know that anyone who knows the spell can access your wand’s history and display your recently-cast spells. So if someone in an area cast a _Bombarda_ , and your wand was checked, it had better not be in your wand’s history,” added Tancred.

Tom nodded. That all made sense. “So, hypothetically, if I needed to do magic this summer, I could go to Wizarding London, and make sure I wasn’t seen?”

They all nodded, and Tom felt a wave of relief. It wasn’t ideal, no, but still offered an opening for emergencies. Diagon Alley wasn’t _that_ far from Wool’s.

 _I wish I’d known those exceptions,_ the voice commented, sounding wistful. Tom pursed his lips, biting back the ready urge to respond, and instead focused on the conversation that had picked up around him.

As the landscape outside of their window started to change and the sun started dipping lower on the horizon, Nott cleared his throat, as though to make some sort of announcement. As he did, Rosier straightened a little in his seat, and Avery had a sort of alertness come over his face. Tancred’s funny smile was back.

Tom raised an eyebrow, shifting his gaze back over to Nott.

“It has been quite the year, and I’d like to say that I have been quite surprised and impressed with you, Riddle. You’ve proven yourself to be just as worthy as a true Slytherin, and you’ve passed all the tests that were presented this year. Please call me Alexius, and know that I consider you to be a friend.”

That had been quite the speech, and Tom could feel some amusement coming from the spot in the back of his mind, but he clamped down on the little bubble of laughter that wanted to surface and instead solemnly replied, “Please, call me Tom.”

There was a beat of silence, then Rosier shot a fist up in the air and cheered. “ _Finally_! We’ve only been asking for _months_.” He turned toward Tom and shoved a hand toward him. “Rhys.”

Avery also turned to him and said with a flat expression, “I suppose then you must call me Rayner.” Then even he cracked a small smirk.

There was some shared laughter then, and as the train pulled into King’s Cross things felt different. Yes, the group did still defer to Nott but they all invited Tom to join in with their laughter, their jokes, their little secret comments, and Tom finally felt like he might belong.

Maybe.

The voice stayed silent.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the lovely comments so far! I adore you all. <3
> 
> And now for the not-so-fun **warning** :
> 
> This chapter, along with many of the following chapters, contains non-graphic references to WWII. These references are based on factual records from the time, including dates, locations, events. I have not manufactured or exaggerated these events.
> 
> At no point will the references to the atrocities of WWII be graphic, however they may be difficult to read about.

Tom made sure to cast a discrete Feather-Light Charm on his trunk before disembarking at King’s Cross, and then set off toward Wool’s on foot. He’d briefly considered making a slight detour to Gringotts to withdraw from the assistance fund right away, since he would be walking near there anyway, but by the time he’d arrived at Charing Cross Road he’d already changed his mind; while he didn’t think the other children would be able to get at his things given the nature of the locking charm on the trunk, he didn’t feel comfortable with gold simply lying about.

It was a fairly nice day out so he stopped by the embankment as he had on his walk back from school shopping last summer and sat on his trunk, looking out over the water.

_It looks different from what I’d expected,_ the voice said after Tom had let his thoughts drift for ten or so minutes.

“That’s certainly an original comment, from you,” he muttered back sarcastically.

_That . . . was entirely deserved. I’m sorry, about before._

Tom blinked. Finally, an apology now? His eyes fixated on a mound of scum that was floating by lazily.

_I expected more people about. Children playing by the river. That sort of thing._

“I expect they’re still at work,” he replied, shrugging slightly. “Well, those on the south side of the river. I’m not certain about those who live on this side. Maybe they’re still in classes.”

_Children working?_

Tom didn’t really understand the question, so he didn’t bother trying to answer. But that reminded him that he should probably get back, as by the time he arrived at Wool’s dinner would probably be served.

He stood, picking up his trunk and made his way down to Westminster Bridge and then crossed over the water, quickly navigating the dirty streets of Lambeth until he was approaching the familiar courtyard.

The voice remained silent.

There was also silence outside, no laughter, no playing, so he hurried his steps as he made his way across the yard to the front door, hoping he hadn’t missed out on dinner.

Mrs Cole was the first to see him when he entered and she looked like she’d seen a ghost. 

“Tom! You’re back! Goodness me, it is you. Well come on in, shut the door—did they let you back here on your own?”

He couldn’t remember the last time she had said this many words to him at once, and was momentarily alarmed. “Yes, ma’am. I walked from King’s Cross.”

“By yourself? Oh dear, well, I’m glad you made it back in one piece. You’ll need to take care this summer, of course, we’re all being careful these days,” she continued, putting a hand at his back and ushering him through the entryway.

Not having the first clue how to deal with her personality transformation he leaned around the doorway of the dining hall, surprised to notice it empty. “Mrs Cole, where is everyone?”

“Oh, they’re just keeping themselves busy inside their rooms, I expect. We’ve been a bit nervous to go outside much, here in the city.”

He frowned, trying to decipher that and failing, and decided to just get settled back into his room. As he ascended the stairs he was wondering if another boy had been assigned to bunk with him, but when he arrived he saw that the room was unoccupied; either they’d left it empty while he was away, or whoever was using the space in his absence had already cleared out.

He sat on his bed, not really knowing what to do with himself. He started to run through some Occlumency exercises for lack of anything else to do, at least until he had a full day free to start on a project, when the voice finally spoke up.

_You live in an orphanage?_

Tom’s jaw clenched reflexively, before he forced it to relax. “Yes.”

A long pause. _I’m sorry. I didn’t know._

Tom exhaled. “I don’t like to talk about it.”

There was a very long pause, almost as if the voice was weighing options, or choosing the right thing to say. Tom hoped he wouldn’t be getting pity. 

Finally, it said, _I never liked talking about my home life either. I . . . was also an orphan._

Tom gave up on his Occlumency exercises and instead decided to lie down on top of his bed.

“Past tense. You’re not an orphan anymore?”

_That’s tied in with the complicated stuff that I don’t really want to get into. Not now._

Tom’s mouth twisted, but then he nodded. “Fine.” Then he searched around for something else to talk about that wasn’t not having parents. “What do you suppose Mrs Cole was talking about? People not wanting to go outside, being so shocked at me being alone. I’ve been allowed to roam London completely on my own for as long as I can remember.”

_I have no clue. Something must have happened?_

Tom tried to consider if he saw anything out of the ordinary on his walk back, but couldn’t think of anything. He shrugged. He’d see if he could get more information from the matron later.

When he finally heard Martha call up the stairs for dinner he went down to the dining hall immediately, not wanting to suffer the bits from the bottom of the stew pot, and he noticed as he saw the other children of the orphanage that they were more subdued than usual. There were a few new faces, and he watched as some of the older ones point in his direction and whispered something to them, but even when his usual tormentors spotted him they only frowned.

It was a very quiet dinner.

The adults had disappeared immediately after eating, only lingering long enough to assign three of them to clean-up duty, so it was easy enough for Tom to slink down past the entryway to linger near the office door and listen.

“—all alone! We can’t let them go down to Stockwell without going with them, but there’s just too much to do here,” Martha was saying, her voice carrying a lot of anxiety.

“And Stockwell won’t send out any of their staff for the same reason. I know it’s hard on them, but we have to be cruel to keep them safe. Apparently it was post offices last week. What’ll it be next, schools?”

Martha gasped. “Mrs Cole!”

“I know, I know, but when will they stop? I can’t even let little Fiona go to her service on Sundays, I’m too afraid of the things she’ll hear. That poor girl.”

“I remember the stories Mother would tell us about the Irish, right after the War ended. But that was all over there. . . .”

“It’s here now, dear,” Mrs Cole said, sounding weary. “Their war is here now.”

Tom quietly stepped away from their office, eyes wide. The Irish? War? He knew that there had been some mentions of the Dark Wizard Grindelwald over the course of the school year, though his activities had apparently been focused on the Continent. Did he have anything to do with Ireland?

He retreated up to his room, making frantic notes in his journal, copying down everything he could recall of that overheard conversation. Tomorrow he’d need to get some more information.

* * *

Of course, things didn’t quite work out the way he’d liked. When he slipped down to the ground floor the next morning early, planning on an early breakfast before walking up to the London Library, Mrs Cole was there with a hand on her hips and a stern expression, waving the long spoon from the porridge pot in his direction.

“Absolutely not, young man! It’s quite a dangerous place out there without you getting into trouble. Now, let’s get you fed, and then you can help Jack with some furniture repairs today while we have some dry skies. The chairs that need fixing are out by the workbench already.”

And no charm nor logic would sway her, so that was that. He spent the long day outside sanding solidified mystery gunk off of chair legs while the older boy glued and nailed loose furniture parts together.

The next day he went down to breakfast a bit later, hoping to sneak out among the rest of the children but she somehow _knew_ and called his name from her office right as he was reaching for the front door.

“Tom, you’re good with numbers, aren’t you? Martha can’t make it in today and I need a second set of eyes to check over some things. Oh, don’t wear those mucky boots in here, we’re staying inside today.”

By Wednesday the following week he’d managed to finally convince Mrs Cole that he absolutely _needed_ to go to the library for his schooling, and she agreed to let him go on Sunday, since she’d be heading in that direction anyway to bring some of the Wool’s residents to St Peter’s.

But then the news on Saturday promptly crushed that plan, and many others.

It was mid-afternoon when Tom heard someone outside racing up to the front door, shoes slapping through the puddles, and there was frantic pounding at the front seconds later. Setting down his journal he stepped to his bedroom door and cracked it open, creeping to the top of the stairs to listen to the voices below.

“—this time! Police are everywhere looking for them!” he heard from a young man, his voice cracking, his breaths heavy and irregular as if he’d just been running. And once he’d caught his breath he was off again, running across the street and pounding on their door.

By the time Tom had descended most of the stairs he could already hear the radio in the office being turned on, and Amy and Janet were walking over from the kitchen, with wet hands and bits of onion peel on their aprons.

There was a tense wait, but all that they could hear was the afternoon cricket commentary. The radio shut off.

Amy then noticed Tom standing on the staircase and started, then edged past the landing and leaned around the door frame. “Mrs Cole? What’s happening?” She sounded scared.

Janet was looking up at him, but she wasn’t saying anything, so neither was he.

He could hear a heavy sigh coming from the office. “Oh, Amy. There won’t be any visits to Stockwell this summer, I’m afraid. There’s—” her voice cracked “—been another attack. A big one this time. Three of the banks.”

From the angle where he was standing Tom could just catch the edge of Amy’s face and she looked fearful, while Janet’s eyebrows had crinkled in worry.

“Are we . . . safe here?” Janet asked.

The office door creaked then and Mrs Cole walked out into the entryway, looking at the two girls, then up at Tom after she noticed his long shadow. “I hope so, I really do.”

She opened her mouth as if she was going to say something more, then shut it. After a moment she seemed to gather her thoughts, and said, “Now, run along back to the kitchen, girls. Tom, why don’t you help them.”

As he was brushing past her he felt her hand ghost across his shoulder, as if she’d raised a hand to hold him back but then stopped herself. He looked back at her and she just shook her head. “I’m sorry Tom, but I’m afraid I must insist that you stay here awhile longer, until we know it’s a bit safer.”

She disappeared into her office then and he clenched a fist briefly, then released it. Well, if he couldn’t get his information from the library, he’d have to get it from somewhere, whether they liked it or not. He really hoped the matron didn’t try to stop him from collecting his school things after he received an owl with his book list later this summer.

When he arrived in the kitchen the two girls had already returned to their task of preparing a whole mountain of vegetables for dinner so he grabbed a knife and joined them, ignoring their tense expressions and their focus on his blade.

After they’d been chopping and peeling for a few minutes, he broke the silence. “I didn’t get much news at my school. What’s been happening?”

Janet scoffed. “Like we’d believe that. Up at your fancy school they probably tell you all sorts of things that they don’t tell us here.”

Amy’s motions had slowed, but she stayed silent.

“Can we just skip ahead to the part where you answer the question? Let’s make this a little easier for Amy and not drag things out.” He was giving the top of her head a dark look, remembering when the girl and Dennis had followed him into the cave two summers prior with the idea of pushing him into the sea. He was satisfied to see her face pale.

“What—” Janet was cut off by Amy’s hand reaching out and touching her wrist.

Amy looked up, not quite meeting Tom’s eyes. “It’s the Irish. They sent a letter to the government and declared war on us in January.”

Tom stared. “ _What?_ ”

Amy looked back down again, her hand slightly shaking, and she put down her paring knife. “They’ve been hiding bombs all over Britain. Mostly in London, I think.”

Tom didn’t know what to say. The idea of it seemed absurd to him. He noticed Janet giving him an incredulous stare.

“You really didn’t know? How? Where is your school, anyway?”

“They’re everywhere,” Amy continued, her voice unsteady. “They—they arrested someone a few streets over on Liberty a few weeks after it started. And then there were bombs in the Underground, and there’ve been fires . . . it’s been mostly bombs.”

“That constable friend of Mrs Cole’s been ‘round visiting a lot this year. Best hope he doesn’t notice you lurking about,” Janet said, giving Tom a nasty look.

He sighed. If he wasn’t able to leave the building it would be a very long summer.

He ended up being quite correct in that assessment, as it wasn’t until the last week of July that he was allowed to leave the orphanage grounds. And by that point it wasn’t just Tom who was going stir-crazy; some of the others had taken to begging and pleading Mrs Cole every morning and afternoon to be permitted to visit their friends at Stockwell, so finally on a hot and humid Monday morning they were all released from their captivity.

Tom had just received his letter containing the next year’s book list that weekend prior, so he was more than ready to make his journey up to the Alleys. He did take a long detour over to Southwark though to try to pawn the jewelry he’d liberated from the Room; there were some places a little less out of the way where could have exchanged them, but he didn’t want to be recognized just in case word made its way back to the orphanage.

He realised as he was being his more charming self that his age certainly put him at a disadvantage, and he was certain that a more reputable clerk would have hauled him to the nearest constable for being a thief, but he was able to get a whole pound sterling for the lot so he considered himself successful.

Finally by eleven o’clock he was stepping through the courtyard behind the Leaky Cauldron and entering Diagon Alley, making his way to Gringotts. The goblin gave him a narrow look after reading over his letter from Dippet, and an even narrower one when he asked to exchange the pound into a mix of shillings and galleons, but in short order he had a heavier coin purse and was on his way to find his textbooks.

Tom recognized a few students as he was walking outside, though what struck him more were the lighter spirits that the shoppers here seemed to have. Whereas there was an almost perceptible weight on the shoulders of all the muggles he had seen on his walk here, everyone in the Alleys seemed oblivious to the terrorism happening just one street over. Then again, perhaps they were.

_The prices all seem so low,_ the voice commented as Tom searched the aisles in the second hand book shop for his course texts. Over the summer so far the voice had seemed almost more shocked at the ongoing events than Tom was, and had seemed rather content to simply observe. It would have probably been more of an enjoyable summer had the voice been a little more communicative, but Tom wasn’t exactly one to talk.

He waited until he was in the back corner, far from the murmur of conversation at the front of the shop between the clerk and a woman with two small children, and replied softly, “Well, this is a second hand shop.”

_Yes, I suppose . . . . How much more do they sell for at Flourish and Blotts?_

Tom shrugged, thinking back to the previous summer—he hadn’t even bothered stepping inside the more upscale shop this year. “Three to six sickles each? Some of the upper year texts are a galleon or more, I think.” He rifled through some of the copies of the Charms text to find one that wasn’t missing half the cover.

_Hmm._

He rolled his eyes. Brilliant conversationalist.

Once he’d picked out the texts he’d need and asked the clerk to set them aside he did some quick mental maths, determining that he still had quite a bit leftover for some additional texts. Considering, he chose some more advanced books from the same Charms series that his current text was from, concluding that if he was going to work ahead he might as well go through the texts that he’d need to purchase in the future anyway. After a brief mental wrangling he also selected the intermediate Transfiguration text, along with a defensive text written by the same author as the Potions text that they were still working through.

As he was drifting from one dusty corner to another, a thought surfaced in his mind. “Are there any titles you’d recommend?” he asked under his breath.

_Any subject in particular? I’d tell you one particular Defence author to avoid but there’s no way he’s written his tosh yet._

The corner of Tom’s mouth twitched in amusement, more at the mental tone of derision than anything. “Not really. You know I want to learn everything.”

There was a reflective pause then, in a tone practically oozing nostalgia, _I once had a book that would try to eat you, unless you stroked it as if it was a cat._

Tom snorted. “I’ll take that as a ‘no’ then, for suggestions.”

Amusement pooled at the base of his skull and with a little private smile he made his way to the register, happy enough to finish up with his purchases and dig into the new knowledge in his room. He could always return later in the summer if needed.

* * *

Tom was glad of his decision to purchase those extra books when he did, since after the next day’s news it was announced in no uncertain terms that _no_ one would be leaving the orphanage grounds. When the details of the latest bombing targets made it to Tom’s ears he grew nervous; this time they had hit the stations, and King’s Cross was one of them.

“I know that you want to go to your school, Tom, but what do they expect their students to do, traverse streets filled with rubble and cripples to get there?” she had all but shrieked when he’d made the mistake of mentioning that his school train departed from King’s Cross.

“Mrs Cole!” Martha gasped. At this point Tom was surprised she even bothered; the young woman was still scandalised every time the matron said something crass, which was almost a daily occurrence at this point.

“ _If_ you are given alternative arrangements, or _if_ they send an adult to escort you to the school, then we will discuss it again. I have half a mind to speak to that Mr Dumberton myself!”

That day when he’d retreated to his room he had simply sat on his bed with his knees up, his arms hugging his legs.

“I don’t know what to do,” he said quietly.

_Can your . . . friends help?_

“I don’t know how I would contact them, even if I could.” He stared out of his window. There was no way he’d be able to keep an owl, and he didn’t want to put one through the stress of living in Lambeth; a neighbour would probably trap it and eat it for Sunday roast before the first week was up.

“I could use the Floo, but I’d need to get up to the Leaky Cauldron for that. I don’t know of anyone closer, and there is no way Mrs Cole will let me go that far. Not on my own. And that’s the same problem with getting to the station on September 1.”

There was a pause, as if the voice was considering its next thought. _But if there were a way to contact—_

Tom let out an explosive breath, cutting the voice off. “I don’t know. I probably wouldn’t. I don’t want to feel indebted. Not more than I already do.”

Even thinking about it gave him a greasy feeling on his skin.

_If. . . . If it’s still a problem on the first, then you could take the Knight Bus. But seeing how Mrs Cole handles stress . . . I’d say that you should only use that trick once, then stay away from her for ten months and hope she forgets._

Tom huffed a laugh at the wry description of her character, then sobered. “The Knight Bus?”

_Er . . . it should be around. I imagine it is. If you’re standing on the pavement stick out your wand hand, and a triple decker bus will show up. It can take you anywhere, the Leaky Cauldron won’t be a problem. It costs . . . er, probably a few sickles?_

‘A few sickles.’ Tom gulped. That would be a last resort then. Then he narrowed his eyes. “You’re not pulling my leg? That’s real?”

_Absolutely real._

“Wizards are barking,” Tom mumbled, shaking his head a little. The voice laughed, and he felt amusement warm him.

Eventually he locked away his glum mood and turned to his books, and much of the following weeks were spent focusing on completing and perfecting his summer work, reading and working ahead—though without practicing the spellwork, unfortunately—and making plans for his own side projects. This year he wanted to learn some more protective magics, both to keep himself safe, but also to protect his belongings; in a way their lockdown in the orphanage had helped to keep his things secure, as more often than not he was in his room with them, but he wanted something a little more certain in future for both the items in his trunk as well as the information in his journal.

True to Janet’s word earlier that summer there was a constable who stopped by the orphanage somewhat regularly. He only ever spoke to Mrs Cole, and even Martha looked more than a little put out at not being included in their secret conversations. Tom had managed to sneak away from their mandatory day outside to listen outside her office door for a few minutes, but had only managed to pick up the barest scraps—something about ‘the numbers,’ ‘the list,’ and whatever it was, Wool’s didn’t seem to be included.

Whatever it was, the voice didn’t seem to have the first clue either, but they were both apprehensive.

August remained quiet in London in terms of bombings, though other parts of the country were targeted, so Tom wished for his luck to hold and had managed to secure the assistance of that constable, who agreed to walk with him all the way up to King’s Cross for the start of school. As he packed his things though he recalled what the voice had said about his emergency option, and made sure his coin purse remained accessible in case he’d need it. Everything else was organised neatly in his trunk.

_What do you have a gas mask for?_ the voice asked suddenly, just as Tom was shoving the offending item under his stack of robes.

“That’s something I’d also like to know,” he muttered, face twisting in disgust at the grotesque item.

He was in fairly optimistic spirits when he finally descended toward the dining hall on the first, and ate quickly, eager to get to the station early. He was therefore alarmed when he saw the constable arrive and head straight for Mrs Cole’s office saying, “Have you heard—”

Tom had a sinking—no, a plummeting feeling in his stomach. He rose quickly and joined them.

The radio was on, saying something about an emergency broadcast.

> _Germany has invaded Poland and has bombed many towns. General mobilisation has been ordered in Britain and France. Parliament has been called for six o’clock tonight._
> 
> _…_
> 
> _France has decreed general mobilisation and martial law._
> 
> _…_
> 
> _Hostilities have been going on since early this morning along the frontiers between Germany and Poland. There is no news about the progress of either side._
> 
> _…_
> 
> _At half past five this morning Herr Hitler, as Supreme Commander of the German Armed Forces, issued a proclamation to the German people. It began by repeating allegations against the Poles, and continued, “From now on, I have no other choice than to meet force with force.”_

  
The three of them listened to the entire broadcast, all ten minutes of it, in a still, shocked silence; Mrs Cole was so stunned that she didn’t even motion for Tom to leave the room.

When the announcer concluded his report there was a further minute of silence in the small room, then the constable cleared his throat. Mrs Cole jumped, a hand held to her chest. She looked grey.

“Well then, I’ll just see about getting young Tom here up to the station safely. I’ll be back later on today, Mrs Cole.”

The walk up to the station was long, and quiet. The constable noticed that Tom was struggling a bit with the weight of his trunk and took over carrying it once they reached Westminster Bridge. He wanted to ask questions, but the tension, the solemnity that had been in the room during the broadcast was so thick, so palpable that he could still taste it as they passed by Trafalgar Square.

The voice must have been in shock too, as it also remained silent on their journey. Upon arriving at the station he reclaimed his trunk, thanked the constable, and crossed through the barrier to his platform, taking a moment to reconcile the grim atmosphere in muggle London with the excitement and positive energy here, feeling distinctly unsettled.

It wasn’t until he had found an empty compartment and sat down that the discomfort that he felt from that spot in the back of his mind changed. But it didn’t diminish; rather, it shot up in a spike.

_Tom,_ the voice spoke and he was immediately alert, having never heard the voice address him directly by name. _You should keep an eye on the muggle papers while you’re at Hogwarts._

As he frowned, worried at the tense tone of the voice, he heard it continue with a heavy sort of sadness. _I’m . . . sorry, Tom. I didn’t realise._

_I’m sorry._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The radio broadcast above is comprised of clips from the BBC Radio News, originally broadcast on September 1, 1939. 
> 
> The actual segment aired in the afternoon, after the King had signed orders mobilizing the Army, the Navy, and the Air Force in the late morning during the meeting of the Privy Council, and after updates on the status of the fight in Poland had been relayed back to British reporters. For the purposes of this scene, these quotes are being used as an initial notice of the invasion, and the initial actions that would have taken place in the morning, before the 11 o’clock train departure.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:**  
>    
> This chapter, along with many of the following chapters, contains non-graphic references to WWII. These references are based on factual records from the time, including dates, locations, events. I have not manufactured or exaggerated these events.
> 
> At no point will the references to the atrocities of WWII be graphic, however they may be difficult to read about.

Ten minutes before eleven Tancred strolled into the compartment, looking utterly relaxed, and fussed about with his trunk for a bit before sitting next to him.

“Good summer? I didn’t hear from you,” the boy said in a casual tone.

“Not exactly,” he replied quietly, not able to withdraw himself from the strange subdued feeling that had plagued him since the revelations at Wool’s earlier that morning. The voice’s ominous apology certainly hadn’t helped matters.

Tancred opened his mouth to say something further but was interrupted by the compartment door banging open and Rhys barging in, followed by a much more reserved Alexius and Rayner. 

“Morning,” the exuberant boy chirped, oblivious to the eye-rolls directed at him by at least two occupants of the compartment, but in short order everyone was settled and the shriek of the train’s whistle was sounding throughout the platform.

“I thought the summer would never end,” he continued in a whinge. “My cousin and her family were over for a visit and it was _horrible_.”

“The one who lives near Swansea?” Alexius asked, looking more like he was humouring him than anything.

There was a groan in response. “I’d almost prefer all those toddlers running around. No, it was the _French_ one. She wouldn’t stop talking about Grindelwald the whole time, you’d think they were having an affair.”

“I doubt he’d be interested, from what I hear,” Tancred pointed out in a mild tone, and Tom wondered what that meant.

Rhys made a face. “Whatever. It’s not like all of their nonsense over there affects us in Britain.”

Tom felt a chill down his spine at those words. Echoes of Martha’s and Mrs Cole’s conversation about the Irish echoed in his mind, as he remembered the young woman saying that it had been their war in Ireland, not here. And then the radio broadcast from only two hours earlier, announcing that Britain would be deciding on some sort of response to Germany’s attack on Poland.

He felt the same tension mirrored at the base of his skull, to the point where he reached up and put a hand at the back of his neck, squeezing at the knot that had formed there.

He felt a nudge at his side. “All right?” his friend asked softly, dark eyes intent.

He nodded. “Just . . . not a good summer. Have you heard about the war that’s going on?”

Tancred gave him an odd look. “It’s been progressing rather steadily since Grindelwald escaped custody more than a decade ago.”

He shook his head. “No, I mean. . . . Ireland declared war on Britain, and there have been attacks all year.”

Tancred had a blank look on his face. “I hadn’t heard anything about that. If Grindlewald was here in the Isles, we should know about it.”

Tom was shaking his head again. “I don’t know that Grindlewald has anything to do with it. Not unless he was involved in Ireland’s civil war,” he added.

When he was still just receiving a blank look he asked slowly, carefully, “Do people really not know what wars the muggles are fighting?”

He’d lost the thread of what the other boys were chatting about, but Rayner chose this time to cut in. “Not unless the war involves us too. They get into squabbles all the time, and they don’t really affect us.”

The immediate response that rose to the surface of his mind was that if Wool’s was bombed during the summer then he’d be very much affected, but he held his tongue. Perhaps witches and wizards had protective magic that could shield against things like bullets and bombs. He’d have to include that in his research on protective magics that year.

 _That’s so naive,_ the voice muttered. _They ignore it and therefore it doesn’t affect them._

He couldn’t help but agree with the voice, and he was grateful that it hadn’t included Tom with its assessment of the other boys. He wondered once again what the voice wasn’t telling him, and what he’d find if he managed to seek out some muggle newspapers.

They were interrupted by a brief knock, then their compartment door sliding open a few inches to reveal Fawley leaning in. “I just found out the Heads are Pinkstone and Randall,” she said with an eyeroll, before retreating and allowing the door to snick shut softly.

Rhys made a sound of disgust in the back of his throat. “A Gryffindor and a Hufflepuff, great. At least Weasley didn’t get it.”

“It explains why we hadn’t heard of anyone getting it before now,” Rayner pointed out. Tom narrowed his eyes in thought, then caught on; the Head Boy and Girl probably mustn’t have been well-connected purebloods.

“Speaking of being well-connected,” Alexius spoke up, “Tom, we’ll need to get your name out there this year. We were discussing it over summer letters and you should join at least one club.”

“Slughorn said I’d be in his Slug Club if I got top marks,” he offered, before smirking, “which I did.”

“Doesn’t count,” Rayner said shortly, then abruptly excused himself and left the compartment.

Tom blinked, while the others acted as though nothing odd had happened.

“Think about it, and talk to the prefects if you need recommendations from students who have been here for several years. You’ll have a week before sign-ups are posted.”

Tom had forgotten how authoritative the tall boy could be. But without Flying taking up a class block and also being able to actually talk to his dorm mates as of the beginning of the school year, he figured things would probably be a bit smoother this year. And second year would be a good time to add extra-curriculars to his course load, before electives would be added in third year.

 _I played Quidditch,_ the voice offered. _And attended one Duelling Club meeting, but that was an absolute nightmare._

Tom was not going to play Quidditch; he didn’t see the appeal of the regular visits to the Hospital Wing, nor the hours spent every week out in miserable weather. A Duelling Club would be interesting, though his spell knowledge at present surely wouldn’t be anywhere near adequate enough to perform well.

Maybe a club to improve his spell repertoire? He thought he remembered something about a Charms Club. He’d have to look into that.

He also felt a tiny secret smile form when he realised another hint of information that the voice had shared, possibly unwittingly.

“Are any of you planning on joining any clubs this year?” he asked the others, and the conversation flowed from there.

Avery didn’t return for several hours, by which point they’d exhausted their topics of conversation. Tom and Tancred had pulled out books from their trunks and were immersed, Rhys was snoring lightly on the opposite bench, and Alexius had gone to say hello to the girls of their year and check in with them after the summer.

The compartment remained silent, as Rayner seemed content to simply stare out the window, and finally the train was slowing as it pulled into the station. By then Alexius had returned so they all found a carriage together and made their way up to the castle, where they piled into the Great Hall with the other students and found seats at their house table.

When it occurred to him that he’d need to pay close attention to the sorting, Tom looked up. “Names and houses for the sorting, right? Nothing else I should be picking up on?”

He got a mixture of nods in return, and while the students chatted and waited for the new crop of first years to be brought in he took the opportunity to cast his eyes across the head table.

Maybe the library collected copies of a muggle paper? Muggle Studies was one of the electives, so perhaps they used them for class research. He would have to check with Madam Vellum. He’d done the mental arithmetic and determined that he’d need about a pound sterling total for daily issues of the Daily Telegraph from now until he returned to Wool’s, and that was just for the printing; he had no idea what sort of arrangement he’d need to make to get an owl to deliver it to the castle. And he was not comfortable spending that much money.

His eyes slid over to where the Muggle Studies professor was seated. The man looked quite young to be a teacher, and he was possibly just out of school himself, at least within the previous few years. If he had enough of an interest to teach a class about muggles, maybe he kept up with their news?

His attention was drawn to the antechamber door which was just opening, admitting Dumbledore and a line of new students, and a hush fell over the hall.

When he’d missed the words at the start of last year’s Sorting Hat song he hadn’t realised that it had an awareness of much other than the school houses, but when the brim ripped open and words started to belt out over the hall it sang of Hogwarts standing together and strong, and protecting students from external dangers. As it continued on to describe the school founders, Tom narrowed his eyes and tried to commit the words to memory so that he could note the warning in his journal later.

He clapped along with his housemates around him as each new student was sorted, and once the affair concluded and Dippet made his usual start-of-term announcements, he turned toward Alexius and relayed the list of purebloods, their houses, and family affiliations. When he received only an approving nod in response he knew he’d passed.

After dinner finally concluded they made their way to their common room, tagging along with Erbach so that she could reveal the initial password of the year—’Tetrapodophis amplectus,’ what a mouthful—and snagged a group of chairs near the fire while they waited for Slughorn to arrive. 

Finally, after Ambrosius Flume and Mabyn Jones were introduced as the new fifth year prefects, Tom headed to bed. He was exhausted from his mind racing for the majority of the day, and wanted to get a long rest before the next day, when he’d have some papers to hunt down. As soon as he pulled his blankets up to his chin he felt himself fading.

It was fortunate that September 1 was a Friday that year, as it allowed Tom two free days before classes were to start to try to tackle the newspaper task, one that was turning out to be a bit of a headache.

He’d spoken with Madam Vellum as soon as the library had opened on Saturday, and following a circular conversation where she’d seemed genuinely confused about what he was requesting, he was ultimately directed to the Muggle Studies teacher, Professor Stalk. After stopping by the breakfast table to quickly eat something and collect his timetable he set off, but after stopping by the man’s classroom, his office, and even—after some hesitation, in case Dumbledore was within—the staff room, but the man was nowhere to be found. Maybe he’d left the school grounds?

Becoming frustrated, he detoured up to the seventh floor and after pacing a certain corridor a few times flung open the door to the Room, slamming it shut behind him and throwing himself into a chair.

“What aren’t you telling me?” he demanded.

_I’m not sure. Well, not completely. I could be wrong._

“But if you aren’t?” Tom pressed. “You seem like you have a pretty good idea of what’s happening, of what this is. Tell me!”

_I’m . . . worried that if I do, things might . . . break more?_

“What, worried that you’ll break _time_?” he asked sarcastically.

A pause. _W-what?_

“I’m not daft. You’ve been cagey about it, but you’re obviously aware of more of the future than you try to let on. And you’re stumbling about trying to give me clues while refusing to actually tell me what it is that you’re trying to say.”

Silence and an uncomfortable nervous energy, that felt like a buzzing at the top of his spine. 

Tom started slowly drumming his fingers against the arm of the chair. Just as he was opening his mouth to demand answers once again the voice spoke.

_There was an incident with time. We were using a Time-Turner, and. . . . Before we turned back I thought I saw something, so when we went back I thought I had to be seen by my other self. But we’d been told that we mustn’t be seen, but I thought that it was okay since I’d already seen myself, even if I didn’t know it at the time. But it wasn’t okay._

Tom’s brow was furrowed as he tried to decipher the stream of words that had formed in his mind. Before he had a chance to ask anything though the voice was continuing.

 _I was at the edge of the lake, and was going to do something, the thing that I’d seen myself do before, and then as soon as my earlier self looked up at me everything went white, and it hurt_ so much _, and it felt like that would last forever._

_And if I think about it too much I find myself back in that white place, feeling that pain all over again, so I try not to think about it. But until you went to the lake and I found myself anchored, I was stuck at the edge of the lake. Forever. At all times._

Tom wasn’t really sure what to think. The voice had meddled with time, apparently, but then . . . . “So you’re actually from the future.”

_Yes._

“So, you know things that are going to happen!” He was leaning forward in the chair now, eager. “You can prevent bad things from happening! You can warn people about danger, and—and—”

_The last time I broke a rule that only affected me—no one else saw me, just me!—I lost everything except my consciousness, and spent what felt like a million years just drifting, scattered across time with no frame of reference, and thought I’d be stuck in that madness forever! What do you think Time would do if I pissed it off even more by having other people break things!?_

Tom stopped, startled. He’d never heard the voice speak with anywhere close to this much vigour. It sounded, and felt, properly incensed.

 _One day I’d be there, seeing a bunch of third years throwing pebbles at the Giant Squid, then the next the lake was twice as big and the edge of the forest miles away, and no sign of Hogwarts ever having existed. Then the next moment there would be crowds with torches and axes charging past me yelling about murdered children, then a werewolf running by. I was_ scattered!

Giant Squid? Tom blinked; that wasn’t important right now.

 _If I hadn’t been_ literally _exploded across time I’d want to fix things too, I promise. And there are things that I want to prevent from happening, but I don’t know what all I’m allowed to do and what I’m not, since my last mistake was tiny. Besides, this far back I don’t really know enough details to be able to say when things will happen, other than within a general year. And so far, you haven’t been half bad._

“ _Excuse_ me,” Tom spluttered.

_I mean—I’m stuck to you now, because if I’m not then I’m stuck at that lakeside at every moment forever, and—er, it’s been fine._

Waves of discomfort rippled through Tom’s mind here. “Fine,” he repeated.

_Er . . . yeah. I mean, you seem like a decent bloke. Not at all like a—well, a bad person?_

Tom narrowed his eyes. He felt prickles of nervousness from the presence now. “So you’re saying you thought you’d have a problem with me? Is it a blood thing?” He thought some more, recalling something the voice had said before. “Or a house thing?”

 _Nooo,_ the voice responded, the vowel drawn out.

Tom’s eyes were narrowed to slits now. He considered the wild tale and thought of something else. “How far in the future? You clearly remember something from this time, given your reaction to the news yesterday.”

A feeling of sadness then, and strangely, guilt. _Er, well, I’m not alive now, if that’s what you’re asking._

“That’s not what I asked, no,” Tom retorted, already knowing he wouldn’t be getting an answer. Then he sighed, the fight leaving him. “What are you so worried that I’ll find out in the papers?”

He could feel the voice thinking, considering, the feeling of guilt intensifying. Long minutes passed.

Finally, it spoke slowly, as if carefully choosing its words. _This attack on Poland. It’s . . . bigger than you think. Bigger than anyone realises. Bigger—bigger than anyone can even imagine. And . . . you'll want to keep an eye on events, since . . . . I don’t remember specific dates, but I’m worried about the summer. I’m worried for you._

War. Tom gasped when he thought of the implications. He let out a shuddering breath, at this point pulling his feet up onto the chair and hugging his legs.

If the voice was worried for him, for the summer, then whatever it was would probably affect London. And if it was a muggle thing, then it was likely that no one would care, if his housemates’ reactions on the Hogwarts Express were any indication of the wizarding world’s views on muggle warfare—or lack thereof. He wouldn’t be safe at Wool’s. But if it was ‘bigger than anyone can even imagine,’ maybe it wouldn’t be safe anywhere.

His thoughts continued to spin, circling around a conclusion that he didn’t want to face. Finally though, he couldn’t turn his mind away from it anymore. He hoped that Grindelwald had something to do with it, so that the witches, and wizards, and the Ministry would pay attention. Maybe then everyone could be safe.

* * *

Tom felt like he was in a daze for the rest of the weekend, not really present with his friends and by Sunday afternoon they’d left him alone, only Tancred remaining though he seemed perfectly content to read quietly and be ignored. After running through some spellcasting practice he tried to prevent himself from imagining how bad things could possibly get by working on his Occlumency, for an unpleasantly long time, until finally he spoke, suddenly needing a distraction.

“Do you want to work with me on another project for my journal this year?” he asked, watching as his friend looked up with a startled expression.

“What did you have in mind?” the other boy asked in a casual tone, his bright eyes betraying his curiosity.

He described the problem he was having, and opened a blank page to start jotting down some ideas. The Doubling Charm certainly worked, though one day he’d have to do something to make it double the pages itself, but at this point the journal was easily three inches thick. A Feather-Light Charm would be useful to help with the weight, certainly, but at a certain point it would be thicker than it was tall, and that was wildly impractical. If there was a way to thin the pages though, but not so thin that they tore. . . .

He dug out his assortment of Charms texts, including the extra book he’d purchased that summer, while Tancred pulled out a few Transfiguration texts, and they spent the rest of the afternoon until dinner quietly flipping through pages while he copied down page references for anything that looked like a potential solution worth trying.

Dinner that night didn’t bring any luck as far as contacting the Muggle Studies teacher, so the next morning he headed to breakfast when the food appeared at half six and planned to sit there until the end to catch the elusive Professor Stalk.

The morning post came and went, and finally, ten minutes before the end of the meal the man entered the Great Hall looking harried, disheveled, his robes dusted in soot, and proceeded to quickly inhale a few slices of toast before standing and making his way to the doors once more. Tom quickly rose and took off after him.

Tom caught up in the Entrance Hall and was calling out, “Professor, good morning!” as he was just starting to ascent the Grand Staircase up to his first floor classroom. The man spun around, nearly catching a foot in the hem of his robes, and looked around with a startled expression, finally settling his eyes on Tom with a look of unfamiliarity.

“Good morning. You needed me? I hope you don’t mind if we walk and talk,” he replied, already turning and continuing up the staircase.

Tom jogged a few paces to catch up then continued in step with the teacher.

“I was doing some research, and Madam Vellum said you might have the particular type of records I was looking for.”

From his angle he could see that Stalk looked properly baffled, probably not very used to any student coming to him with questions, let alone a student that wasn’t even taking his class.

“I would be happy to help, if I am indeed able to,” he replied. “What was it you were looking for?”

“I was wondering if you have copies of any muggle publications, like newspapers,” Tom said cautiously, not comfortable fully disclosing his worries to this relative stranger.

He shot Tom an alarmed look. “I certainly do. What time frame were you looking for?”

They’d arrived at the first floor and were turning into the corridor where the classroom was located. “Ideally as recently as possible. Such as from the past few days, sir.”

The alarm in his gaze didn’t diminish, but he waved a wand at the door to the classroom to unlock it and opened it wide, waving in Tom ahead of him. “Yes, I do have recent issues of a few different publications, including some Sunday papers.” He stopped in front of a tall filing cabinet and paused then, and sighed. “I’m not one to withhold information or censor news for the sake of students, but I must warn you, there are many troubling things in these reports.”

Tom swallowed and nodded. “I understand, sir. But I need to know.”

Stalk gave a sharp nod then showed him the particular drawer that would hold that year’s issues, and briefly explained his filing system. Then he pulled a bundle of papers from his briefcase and set them on a table. “These ones are from this weekend; I haven’t had a chance to put them away yet as I just returned. Let me know if you need any help. Oh, and I will have a class arriving in half an hour.”

Steeling himself he reached for the papers on the desk as Stalk turned and made for his desk.

> _BRITAIN’S ULTIMATUM_   
>  _Germany Told She Must Stop Her War_   
>  _PREMIER’S CALL TO THE NATION_   
>  _All Men 18 to 41 Liable to Military Service_

Tom felt prickles along his spine. He flipped to the next headline.

> _BRITAIN AT WAR: ULTIMATUM BY FRANCE EXPIRES AT 5 p.m._   
>  _GERMANY IGNORES OUR DEMAND_   
>  _THE KING TO BROADCAST THIS EVENING_   
>  _MORE TOWNS BOMBED IN POLAND_

He flipped to the next one.

> _BRITAIN AT WAR_   
>  _Germany Ignores Final Ultimatum_

He fell heavily into a chair, swallowing thickly, his skin cold, unable to do anything but turn to the next headline.

> _“THIS COUNTRY IS AT WAR”_   
>  _Prime Minister’s Dramatic Broadcast This Morning_

And the last.

> _BRITAIN IN WAR WITH GERMANY_
> 
> _France’s Entry Follows_
> 
> _Mr Churchill in War Cabinet_

He tried to read some of the articles but couldn’t. Not now. After staring blankly at the pages for several long minutes, not really aware of the professor’s movements around the classroom, he finally gathered his thoughts and stood.

“Excuse me, Professor Stalk, but would you mind if I made some copies? I’d like to read through them, but I won’t have time before your class arrives.”

The teacher looked over and gave him a shrewd look, then nodded. “That’s quite all right. Let me put this away and I can duplicate those for you.”

“It’s all right sir, I know the spell.”

The man made him demonstrate a perfect Doubling Charm on another item first, but Tom understood; it certainly wasn’t a second-year spell. But with permission granted he proceeded to quickly make copies of the papers and fold them neatly, in plenty of time before the Muggle Studies students would be showing up. With a quick word of thanks and assurance from the professor that he was welcome back in the future to look at new issues he slipped out of the classroom, not really sure where his feet were taking him.

He had another hour until his first class of the year, Charms, and he’d need to be in better spirits if he was to perform to his usual ability. He finally decided to return to the dorms so that he could tuck the papers away in his trunk and not be tempted to read them during the day, at least not until he knew he wouldn’t need to talk to anyone for awhile after.

On his way back up to the Charms classroom he tucked into one of the passages to find some privacy, then asked quietly, “Is this what you expected?”

 _The start of it,_ yes, was the subdued reply.

“If conscription happens. . . . I’ll be of age and have my N.E.W.T.s before I turn eighteen, so I’ll be long gone from Wool’s and can make sure I stay in wizarding areas.”

 _I don’t think you have to worry about that,_ the voice replied vaguely. 

“Do you think the restriction on underage magic will be lifted? If we’re in danger, you’d think so,” he wondered.

_In my experience, the Ministry didn’t seem too consistent in enforcing that law, or care about properly investigating reports to make sure the blame was correctly assigned. Mind you, I’m not sure about during a war._

There was a derisive sort of tone to the comment. “Not a fan of the Ministry?”

_I guess. I didn’t really deal with them a whole lot before, but the interactions I did have were pretty abysmal. Then again, I’m not really sure where the divide is between what the Ministry takes care of, and what other entities like the Wizengamot handle. The Minister at least seemed like an idiot._

_Then again, I suppose we were the ones who put him in power? Well, the adults anyway._ Someone _had to have voted him into office. So at the time they just seemed like they were more interested in covering up mistakes and pretending they didn’t happen, than actually acting with integrity._

Tom grimaced. “People in power who can’t admit that they were wrong. That sounds like a certain professor of mine.”

There was a shifting sensation, as if the voice was unsettled. _I had a lot of time to think. When I was scattered, I reflected on my memories from_ before _, and I know that a lot of my perception was tarnished by my young age, and the fact that I’d been sheltered from so much for all of my life. I still don’t know why certain things in my life were handled the way they were by people who were in charge at the time, and the Ministry’s a part of that, but at this point I don’t think I’ll ever find out._

_I think that it’s important that you’re asking questions, though. I’m almost ashamed when I think back to how accepting I was of everything, and I was so blinded by the fact that I was able to be a wizard that I ignored so much of what was very very wrong._

“I think that had Dumbledore acted reasonably, I might have been more willing to accept things as well,” he allowed. Then he frowned, thinking. “Actually no, being sorted into Slytherin certainly forced me to confront this society’s racism, whereas I think I’d have been more ignorant to it in some of the other houses.”

_It, ah, doesn’t really go away. Unfortunately._

Tom leaned against the passage wall that was at his back, disappointed in that nugget of truth from the future. Well, if that was inevitable, as the voice seemed to think the future was, then he’d need to continue to make sure that it didn’t hold him back. And once he wasn’t being held back because of his blood, maybe he’d be in a position to actually _do_ something about it.

Sounds of students started to filter in from the corridor beyond so Tom ducked around the tapestry that was hiding this passage and joined them in the queue for the classroom.

Their first Charms class was only a lecture, which would afford Tom some time to review the syllabus and practice the spells that they’d be covering ahead of the next time they would meet. After lunch he had an entire afternoon-long Potions class, in which they covered some review topics from the previous year, completed a fairly simple brew, and also each received a copy of their course syllabus—and there was something extra tucked in with Tom’s, indicated by Slughorn’s not-at-all subtle wink.

When he and his housemates had finally left the classroom he slipped out the small folded rectangle of heavy parchment and opened it, revealing an invitation written in shiny gold calligraphy.

> _You Are Invited To_   
>  _A Most Wonderful Evening With_   
>  _The Slug Club_
> 
> _September 15, 7 p.m._   
>  _Dungeon Four_

_That really is a terrible name._

Tom’s mouth quirked, which he relaxed when he felt someone approach him. “Ah, you did get one. I was hoping,” Alexius said, having obviously recognized the note.

He looked over at the other boys, taking in their expressions. “You’re all part of his group because of your family connections, I take it?”

Rhys rolled his eyes. “No, only Alex so far, since his family is much more involved in things and Sluggy recognizes that. Tancred should be though, I don’t know why he’s not.” He looked over at the quiet boy. “Your family has done loads.”

Tancred gave a small shrug. “Not my branch. My grandfather was Minister a century ago, but all of the recent activity has been in another part of the family. They’re more or less doomed to die out though, so perhaps he will set his sights on me.”

By the time they had arrived at the Great Hall conversation had turned away from their head of house’s fondness for collecting ‘talent’—connections, really—and in a lull, Tom asked a question that had been niggling at the back of his mind.

“Has there ever been any sort of conscription? I had wondered, with Grindelwald’s war going on.”

He received a few confused looks in response, and Alexius asked, “Conscription?”

Rayner gave a vague sort of shrug and turned back toward his meal. Tancred, on the other hand, looked thoughtful. “Conscription. . . . A written record of some sort?”

Tom felt wrong-footed. “I suppose another way to say it would be forced military service?”

Rhys laughed, while the others looked either bewildered or amused. “Forced military service. That’s a good one. No, the Wizengamot would slap down anyone batty enough to propose legislation like _that!_ ” His laughter had turned into snorts, to which Alexius was responding by pinching the bridge of his nose in annoyance, and which drew curious looks from some of the first-years.

Tom’s mouth twisted as he turned his focus toward his meal, copying Avery before their normally-quiet group attracted attention from a blue-eyed menace.

Perhaps not conscription then, but would magical Britain still seek to become involved in the new war that the muggles across Europe were getting involved with? This country was already doing what it could to ignore the impact of Grindelwald’s actions, at least as far as he had heard. He’d need to see what he could find from the time frame of the Great War, and whether there had been support on the magical side.

When they all returned to the common room they gathered around the notice board together, and Tom reviewed the different club offerings. He saw that the Charms Club met weekly on Saturday afternoons, which would work just fine for him. The first official meeting would be in two weeks’ time, but there would apparently be a more casual information session this coming weekend and students who had participated in prior years would be there to answer any questions. Tom didn’t see anything wrong with that so he added his name to the list.

In reviewing the other options he saw that Rhys had already added his name to the Quidditch sign-up list and was reading the write-up about Gobstones, while Rayner was adding his to the Chess Club posting. The other two boys appeared to be having a quiet discussion about the Potions Club, which Tom briefly considered then dismissed; the subject was interesting and useful, but he didn’t want to give all of his free time over to additional studies. Besides, something else on the notice board had caught his interest.

“Astronomy? But _why?_ ” Tom glanced over from where he’d just added his name to see Rhys looking almost scandalised. The other boys were all watching.

He lifted a shoulder in an easy shrug. “Why not? I enjoy the subject, and Kepler did say that the positions of various celestial bodies have an impact on other disciplines, like rituals, arithmantic equations, and some other forms of divination.”

As he spoke Tancred developed a thoughtful expression, then added his name to the list as well. Staring now, Rhys looked over the information for the club, then stepped back. “Well at least it’s on Saturday, and you can have a lie-in on Sunday. But—it’s so _dull._ ”

_I have to say, I agree with him. Astronomy? Really?_

Tom felt mirth coming over him at the tone of utter derision that was present in the voice, so he shared an amused look with Tancred. Then he looked down at Rhys and said in a mild tone, “It’s only every other week. And it’s not like you have to be there.”

The shorter boy gave an exaggerated shudder then said in a decisive tone, “I absolutely will not be,” before stalking off in the direction that the others had gone once they’d finished with their own sign-ups.

That evening after he finished the assignments from his first classes, Tom spent several hours working ahead for Charms, focusing on the practical aspects that he’d been unable to review over the summer, and fell asleep feeling rather accomplished.

The next morning was entirely free of classes and was spent in the library. Tancred joined him, which was not unusual at all, but much like the prior year the other boy seemed content to focus on his own work while Tom immersed himself in his projects. After a quick conversation with Madam Vellum he disappeared into the History section, returning to their table with a dossier full of old issues of _The Daily Prophet_ as well as _The Oracle_ , having learned of the latter when he’d asked about news coverage of the Continent. 

Finally, after an hour or so of flipping through pages from 1914 he found one special issue of _The Evening Prophet_ that had him sweeping the entire stack to the side in disgust.

“Problems?” Tom looked up to see his house mate watching him, an arched eyebrow and slight quirk to his lips displaying his curiosity.

“I’m not certain.” After hearing the earlier comments about magical Britain’s lack of interest in muggle wars, he wasn’t sure that he wanted to bring up the issue again, at least not with his dorm mates. Then again, he wasn’t exactly close enough to other students, especially ones with family in the muggle world, that he could ask. Maybe the voice—

_You may as well ask him. I don’t think I’ll have much perspective to offer. At this rate you probably know more about World War I than I do._

That caused some stuttering in Tom’s thoughts, until he shook his head a little to clear them. “I was curious about our involvement in a massive muggle war that happened a few decades ago. Three quarters of a million dead from this country alone, and the war spanned Europe. And. . . .”

He pulled out the issue that had upset him and passed it across the table.

Tancred’s eyes flicked over the headline and skimmed the article, then met his. “Well, the Statute of Secrecy is an important piece of our world. We need to keep ourselves safe.”

Tom could feel his stomach clenching. “So, passing emergency legislation to make it actively illegal to become involved in the war in any way, that made sense?”

His friend was clearly thinking about his words, and probably his tone too, and most likely considering all sorts of factors as his response was not immediate. Finally, he offered, “It was the best gesture to come from the Ministry. In a time of panic, there needed to be a clear message. If people were allowed to help, then individuals would need to be able to rationally determine what actions were safe within the statute, and which weren’t. And the majority of people do not act rationally in a crisis. This also made it explicitly illegal for people to get involved in an _unhelpful_ way.”

Tom let out a small huff as he sat back in his chair and ran through the response a few times in his head. He hated that it made sense, but at the same time . . . it wasn’t good enough.

His fingers were tapping against the side of his chair as he continued to consider the problem. It was a few minutes later when he was drawn out of his thoughts by Tancred’s voice.

“Tom, this happened—” there was a brief rustling of pages “—25 years ago. What’s this really about?”

“A new muggle war just started,” he said cagily.

Tancred nodded. “You’d said on the train. You mentioned Ireland?”

Tom closed his eyes briefly. With all of the anxiety he was feeling from the voice over this Poland thing he’d almost entirely forgotten about the Irish bombings. But then he opened his eyes again as he shook his head. “No, this is something new, but will probably be bigger.” He thought back to the way that the voice had described it, and then gestured toward the newspaper. “Possibly bigger than that, and at least fifteen _million_ people died in _that_ war.”

The other boy showed no outward reaction to that. “Then expect a similar edict. That’s if it even becomes news in magical Britain, since the Grindelwald war would obviously overshadow it.”

His fingers were still tapping a rhythm against his chair. Finally he reclaimed the paper and arranged it back with the others from that decade, and pulled the other collection of newspapers toward him. “I suppose I should catch up on this Grindelwald war then, shouldn’t I?”

The rest of the week passed in a flurry of classes, assignments, side projects, and Occlumency practice. Even Transfiguration went well, if being utterly and entirely ignored was a good thing. Before he knew it the weekend had arrived, and with it the Charms Club meet and greet.

None of his dorm mates had signed up for the club, so that Saturday after lunch he made his way to the Charms Corridor. Upon approaching the classroom where the meeting was being held he noticed a white banner hanging above the door; as he approached, he was intrigued to see letters starting form on it spelling the words, ‘Welcome, Tom Riddle,’ filling from left to right as if being written by hand. As he heard another set of footsteps approaching down the hallway he watched as the words vanished, then started to complete again, reading this time, ‘Welcome, Carlotta Pinkstone.’

Interesting.

He pushed the door open and entered the room, his eyes catching on the strange features that had obviously been set up as some sort of charms exhibit. In front of one of the windows there was a circular spot of the room where it was raining, and the sunlight streaming through it was casting a rainbow of light against the stone wall. There was a set of robes hovering in one corner and appearing to hem itself, while in another corner of the room there was a harp that seemed to be playing itself, the strings plucking themselves and the pedals depressing on their own, though no music could be heard. Against a wall there was a long table covered in a tower of glasses, and hovering above was a pitcher pouring what appeared to be pumpkin juice to fill the glasses below, though the pitcher didn’t empty and the glasses didn’t overflow.

As he walked around the room inspecting each of these displays he noticed that there appeared to be a room divider set up that was concealing a circle of a dozen or so chairs. Some of these were already occupied by older students, along with a second year Ravenclaw whose name was Reed, he was fairly certain. He took a seat while the upper years continued their conversation about O.W.L. year course loads, and after a few minutes passed and a few more students arrived, he saw Smethwyck enter the classroom and walk their way.

“Welcome everyone, I’m glad to have you all here!” she greeted them with a wide smile. “As it said on the club notices this is just an informal session, so we won’t necessarily be here for the full hour and a half, but I thought it would be good to review expectations and such before any new students join, and for those in their N.E.W.T. years to decide if they want to volunteer for extra duties in the club to gain some additional experience.

“Now, looking around at you all, I can confidently say that you have all performed competently enough in Charms classes to be getting on just fine in this club. Those of you in the lower years, you’ll get a list of the larger repertoire of standard and useful charms that club members typically familiarise themselves with upon joining rather than waiting for them to come up in class, and the upper years can help you get caught up with those.

“For everyone, we will continue to follow the same structure that we have in past years: the autumn term will be spent learning non-dark charms; the winter term will be devoted to the three categories of dark charms—those being jinxes, hexes, and curses of course; and the spring term will be reserved for introductory spell-crafting, along with any other requests. And as this group is made up of various school years, there is no expectation that all of you will be experts in every enchantment that we cover; however, at the least, you should have a solid foundation upon which to build.

“At the end of the year to have a bit of competitive fun before exams, we hold a small Speed-Charms tournament. The winner gets their name on the club’s board in the Trophy Hall, and earns a nice bunch of points for the House Cup.

“Now, as this is a club, there is no expectation that you’ll be here every single week, but if you miss a session then just note that we won’t cover that week’s agenda again as a group. I’ll be sharing the weekly list of topics in the first meeting of each term, so you’ll be able to plan ahead. And if you already know a spell that we will be covering, you’re still more than welcome to attend that week to brush up on your casting, or help the others!”

Smethwyck had been gesticulating a little wildly by the end of her little speech, much as the professor often did during class. She then brought her hands together with a wide smile, then swept her eyes across the group. “Any initial questions before we do some introductions?”

Most of the questions pertained to specific spells, and whether they would be included in that year’s list. One of the students—he looked like he might be in fourth or fifth year—asked in a worried tone how she could be teaching them _Dark Arts_ , spitting the words as if they were made of poison, to which the professor responded by giving a derisive laugh and saying that he would need to get used to the idea of dark charms if he wanted to pass his Charms O.W.L.

Finally the questions concluded, and introductions were made. Tom was surprised to note that he was one of only two Slytherin students in the group, the other being a seventh year named Camilla Bole. There were six students from each Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw, and only three from Gryffindor, one of whom had been the one to ask about Dark Arts. 

After a quick tour around the exhibit area, during which the professor quizzed them all on which charms they were able to recognize and identify, the students all filed out of the room in their various house and year groups.

Tom trailed his house mate, and when she didn’t seem to give any indication of minding, he asked about the house mix.

“That is fairly typical,” she said with a sneer. “Most of our house sees charms as ‘soft,’ conveniently forgetting that the curses that those same people prefer casting are charms.”

Tom raised an eyebrow; people had the strangest fixations.

“In my fifth year I was the only Slytherin, if you can believe that. We did have a firstie last year, but she dropped out after the first month. Wouldn’t say why, but her loss,” Bole finished with a shrug.

By that point they’d arrived at the Grand Staircase and parted ways, as she descended while he climbed up to the seventh floor, wanting to spend the rest of the afternoon with a bit of privacy.

A few minutes later, as soon as he shut the door of the Room behind him, the voice spoke.

 _That wasn’t too bad,_ it offered. _It sounds like Smethwyck will be keeping you all busy._

Tom smiled unreservedly, taking a seat in what looked remarkably like his usual nook in the library. “I enjoyed it. Busy can be good, when it’s productive. You know that I want to have access to a more diverse spell list, and you heard her—this will be magic that’s not even on the curriculum, or if it is then not for several years. What better opportunity is there, other than learning all of these myself?”

_I also found the house mix interesting. I guess . . . it makes sense though? Bookish Ravenclaws, and hardworking Hufflepuffs?_

“I think that the Slytherins’ view of charms is daft, but I reckon the Hufflepuffs being so keen on them doesn’t really help their reputation,” he added with a small smirk.

Tom spread out two rolls of parchment on the table in front of him. One was the weekly topic list for the first term, and the other was the list for new club members. He skimmed it and made a few notations next to the charms that he’d already taught himself, then sorted the remainder into some sort of order based on category, usefulness, and similar parameters. Assuming they weren’t any more complex than some of the other charms he’d learned, he figured he should be able to cast them at the very least, if not be proficient, by the winter hols.

With that taken care of, he asked for the copies of _The Oracle_ he’d been working his way through, and the Room was ever so good to oblige.

* * *

The next week passed by even faster than the first, almost too quickly, as before he knew it Friday evening had arrived and he was dreading the impending doom of the ‘Slug Club.’

_Oh, it’ll be fine. Slughorn absolutely adores you._

Tom couldn’t respond as Alexius was also in the dormitory getting ready, but he could absolutely turn his back to the other boy and make an immature face in response to the voice’s teasing tone.

_Just think. All the compliments, the boasting. . . . You won’t even have to worry about being social and making those connections that your friends keep needling you about. That ridiculous man will take care of it all for you, I’m sure._

Tom’s mouth twisted, torn somewhere between irritation and amusement. Yes, he was certain that his head of house would probably lay on so much flattery he’d feel filthy before dinner was over.

“Almost ready?” his year mate called from the other side of the room.

“Yes,” he replied, casting one final charm to neaten any remaining creases in his robes. He was just wearing his school robes, as he didn’t have anything else other than his Wool’s tunic, and he was absolutely not wearing _that_ anywhere. He should probably set aside some coin and find some affordable non-school clothing on his next trip to the Alleys.

They made their way to the room in the dungeons together and it was another three hours before they returned to the dorms, but once it was all over Tom couldn’t help but think that it hadn’t been _that_ bad.

Yes, he’d had to smile and smirk through a deluge of flattery, but he’d met some interesting recent graduates who held jobs in international politics, in journalism, in banking, and in inventing, and he’d also managed to share a few words with some older students who seemed not at all unfriendly, whether because of his name, his house, or his school robes, so all in all it wasn’t a horrid waste of time.

Upon arriving back at the dorms, he had fashioned a pocket of sorts within the cover of his journal to hold the business cards that he’d managed to collect.

 _That was awful,_ the voice helpfully offered as Tom was getting ready for bed later. _I don’t know how you did it. I always just wanted to fade into the background, and all those people, they seemed so . . . hungry._

Tom climbed into bed and closed his curtains, sighing as he curled up under his blankets.

 _I’m sure the connections will serve you well,_ the voice then offered in a cautious sort of tone.

Tom rolled his eyes upward. He’d need to figure out some sort of magic he could do to hold private conversations in his own bed. He wasn’t about to start responding to the voice within earshot of others, whether they sounded like they were asleep or not.

_Maybe Slughorn will invite some professional Quidditch players to his next dinner. That would be fun._

Ah, sarcasm. The voice wielded sarcasm as if it were a sledgehammer.

_Fine. I know this isn’t fair on you. Good night, Tom._

And so he slept.

The next day he hid away and took a break from his consumption of any and all knowledge about Grindelwald to instead make a foray into warding, though he did so in the library rather than the Room. Over the past week he’d noticed a few small comments from the other boys regarding his Ravenclaw tendencies, to the point where Alexius had flat out asked if he thought that signing up for a few clubs meant that he could ignore his friends.

Tom had felt immediately chagrined and decided that he should probably put in a bit more effort, as they had obviously put some degree of effort into him.

So it was that Saturday morning, while Rhys was both excited and also a nervous wreck over the Quidditch try-outs that day, Tom and Tancred sat at their spot, the former with a stack of books, the latter with a textbook, an unfinished essay, and a familiar curious smile.

“What is today’s sudden new interest?”

“Wards,” he stated promptly. “Privacy, security, and so on.”

Tancred blinked. “Any in particular? Or all of them?” he asked with a smirk.

Tom shrugged and pulled out his lists from Charms Club, indicating certain symbols that he’d marked next to specific spells. “These to start, but I want to know how to protect my belongings, protect a location, protect myself. . . . Proactively, not just the shields and reactive defensive magic that we’re covering in Defence. As for privacy, I’m thinking of keeping information private, conversations, written documents. . . .”

Tancred was still reading over the lists, in greater detail than just the particular spells that Tom had indicated. Pointing at the term list he asked, “Is this what you’ll be covering this year?”

“Just until the hols. Then we move on to dark charms, and then after Easter we’ll be doing some spell-crafting, apparently.”

His friend’s eyes took on a curious gleam. “It sounds like you’ll be busy,” he said mildly, finally passing the lists back.

Tom huffed. “That’s what people keep telling me.” He felt a tendril of amusement in the back of his mind.

“People can be clever, on occasion,” was the response, which elicited another huff as his lips twitched. “If you want to work on any of those together just let me know,” he then offered, gesturing toward the stack of books.

Tom gave him a grateful nod and opened up his journal, planning on putting together a list of his own before starting to work on any particular spell.

They took a break for lunch together, meeting up with Alexius and Rhys—“I made reserve Chaser!”—before heading back to the library, though Tancred made a quick detour to the common room to stow his finished essay. The afternoon continued on much as the morning had, though while Tom continued adding to his list, noting interesting and useful-sounding spells from the texts he was checking, the other boy was making his own notations for each one, ranking them in terms of difficulty, and also indicating possible flaws or weaknesses as applicable. By the time they were clearing off their table to head to dinner they had a solid plan in place, and would be working through their list together.

Much later that night was their first Astronomy Club, and while it wasn’t as engaging of a first meeting as he’d found with the Charms Club, it still filled him with excitement to learn that they would be following celestial ‘events,’ and discussing the impact of those events on all branches of magic. Which to Tom sounded _fascinating_.

The following Monday, Tom realised that he’d been putting off actively thinking about the attack on Poland by distracting himself with his research on the wizarding war, so after breakfast he dragged himself up to the Muggle Studies classroom and spoke with the professor, hoping that nothing noteworthy had happened in the past two weeks.

His hopes were quickly dashed. The obituaries were filled with more In Memoriam notices than Tom could ever remember seeing, and it took him a few minutes to realise that the names—they were all pets. Every day’s papers filled with pages upon pages of pets ‘given sleep.’

He was horrified.

And then, slipped among the newspaper issues was another sort of paper, this one a leaflet.

> _**NATIONAL REGISTER** _   
>  _NATIONAL REGISTRATION DAY IS_   
>  _FRIDAY, 29th SEPTEMBER, 1939_
> 
> _RATIONING.—The return on the schedule herewith_   
>  _will be used not only for National Registration but_   
>  _also for Food Rationing purposes. It is to your_   
>  _interest, therefore, as well as your public duty, to_   
>  _fill up the return carefully, fully and accurately._

It went on to describe in great detail the process by which everyone was to register, but the word that his eyes kept being drawn back to was that single specific one, ‘rationing.’

Rationing.

That one word was echoing in his head, the only thought that he could hold onto. He felt tense, and was vaguely aware of his fingers shaking where they held the page. He felt a strange sort of fear swell in his mind, and it was that fear that brought everything into sharp focus, as it wasn’t _his_ fear.

He put the leaflet down. Rationing. But also, a register. One day to register. And he was tucked away at a magical school in Scotland where students and teachers alike ignored ‘muggle issues’ and where no one would even know that he’d need to be registered in order to eat when he returned to the orphanage the next summer.

Rationing.

He glanced toward the front of the room where Stalk was grading some essays, and catching the man watching him with worried eyes he looked away. Well, perhaps not every teacher.

Making duplicates and restoring the originals to their proper places he thought about his options. He was supposed to start with a prefect if he had issues, but there was _no way_ he was explaining his living situation to another student. Slughorn already knew that he used the assistance fund to buy his school supplies so Tom would speak with him; he had just under two weeks to figure something out. But there were muggleborn students at Hogwarts—surely they wouldn’t be forgotten?

He lingered after Potions that afternoon to speak with his head of house, and after sharing his concerns the man had told him, his bushy eyebrows tilted and sympathetic, “Don’t you worry yourself, Tom, no one has forgotten about you. We’ll get this squared away before you know it.”

He wised he could have been more comforted by the assurance.

Sure enough, two days before the mass registration was to occur, Slughorn summoned Tom to his office and then kindly explained that he had nothing to be concerned about; he’d been informed that the Act didn’t include Scotland, and with that being the location of Hogwarts he wouldn’t need to take part in the process. He was then ushered out of the office with a wildly out-of-place compliment on his most recent Strengthening Solution, and it was all Tom could do to hold his tongue.

He then promptly went up to the Room with all of the restraint he could muster, and proceeded to violently throw rocks into the pond he had asked it to produce.

That evening after dinner, Tom caught Professor Stalk before he left the Great Hall.

“Excuse me sir, but would I be able to speak with you? I would wait until tomorrow only it’s urgent,” he said, not quite pleading, but also not quite _not_.

The professor didn’t even hesitate before leading him back to his office near the Muggle Studies classroom.

Once they were both seated, he was given a concerned sort of smile. He was struck again by just how young the man looked—surely he was no older than twenty-five. Maybe that would work in Tom’s favour; perhaps he hadn’t been turned insensible by bureaucracy and complacency yet.

He tried to gather his thoughts. “I wanted to thank you again, sir, for allowing me to read up on the muggle news. I know that I’m not one of your students, and you have no obligation to. . . .” He trailed off, having to look away from the professor’s patient gaze.

He cleared his throat, and his fingers started to fiddle with the hem of his sleeve. “I live in muggle London, and I’m worried about the Registration Act. I won’t be there on Friday, and I’ve been told that there aren’t any arrangements being made since we’re in Scotland, and . . . I’m not sure what to do,” he finished quietly, still looking away.

“Mr Riddle,” Stalk started in a kind tone, “all parents of muggleborn students enrolled at Hogwarts have been contacted. Your family will register you on your behalf, as if you were asleep at home on Friday night.”

His hand clenched tight against his sleeve and he stared at it for a few long seconds before he relaxed his fingers, trying to breathe. “I don’t have parents, sir. I live in an orphanage.”

He hoped that the professor would have more reassuring words, but when they weren’t forthcoming, he chanced a glance up.

Pity. The kind eyes were full of pity, and Tom couldn’t stomach it, so he looked down again, feeling the prickling heat of a flush rising up the back of his neck.

“I see. Well I can certainly look into things for you. I’ll just need the address, and the name of the person who runs the place, and everything will be taken care of.”

Tom bit his lip, feeling tense all over. This was it. He would have to trust Stalk, and if he didn’t come through. . . .

“Of course, sir.” He passed along the relevant details, and was told that a meeting would be scheduled once his papers were in order. He felt ill. He left the office, and for once didn’t even care that Dumbledore practically stared at him through the entirety of the next morning’s Transfiguration class. He didn’t really know how he made it through the rest of that week, honestly.

Much of that weekend saw him holed up in the Room, once he’d finished that week’s assignments and self-assigned project work, just lying back on a pile of cushions staring at a starry ‘sky’ above.

_I hope he is able to sort things out. I really do._

Tom didn’t have anything to say. He was so wound up, his entire body a giant knot of tension, of anxiety, of . . . the voice’s fear.

 _If. . . . I hate to even mention it, but_ if _you don’t get registered, then maybe you can figure something out with your Doubling Charm? I’m pretty sure you can duplicate food._

Tom perked up slightly, but then slumped again. Yes, he could perform an excellent _Geminio_ , but when he wasn’t allowed to cast magic, and when he wasn’t allowed to leave Wool’s to go to the Alleys, that was hopeless. Any food that he grabbed from the kitchens and packed ahead would only go so far, last so long.

_You could try to stay with friends over the summer?_

That was a thought. Just what he needed—to visit friends who lived in their idyllic homes, in realities untouched by the concept of muggles, or poverty.

_Tom. . . . Please, talk to me._

“I hate this waiting. I feel so _useless,_ ” he spat. “We have magic, and yet I’m waiting in the hopes that someone can get me a piece of paper that allows me the great privilege of _eating_ next summer.”

_I . . . don't know what to say. I don’t want to offer empty words of comfort. I don’t want to lie to you._

Tom let out an explosive breath. “I know. Don’t lie to me. I just—this is mad. I don’t understand it.” He let out a bark of laughter. “I truly do—not—understand.”

He sensed an tingle of agreement from the back of his mind, but still the most prevalent emotion he felt from the other entity was an overwhelming sort of misery. He wasn’t sure if he’d be as out of sorts as he was right now if he wasn’t feeling everything amplified. But then, he didn’t know that he wanted to be completely alone.

“They just don’t understand. At all. A bomb detonates in an instant. A rifle fires a bullet and the target is dead, or injured, or maimed, or whatever the instant that the wielder decides to fire. From what I’ve seen so far, defensive shields don’t _really_ protect against all physical attacks, since the consensus is that if someone is coming at you with a sword, you react by doing something to the sword, or doing something to the attacker. But a _bomb?_ The attacker could have been there a day earlier to hide it so well that you don’t even know it’s there. A bullet? They could be in the next building over. And there’s no way anyone can react to a damn bullet to stop it. It’s already too late at that point.”

He blinked some more at the ceiling, trying to let the glittering points of light bring him to a calmer state. “And the combination of deliberate ignorance and intentional inaction. They choose to ignore it, and they choose to do nothing about it. It’s so—”

He shut his eyes. He couldn’t even find the words to express the roiling mess of disgust, of disappointment that he felt for the society that he was now a part of. These people who actually had the power to _do_ something, but who didn’t want to badly enough that they’d convinced themselves that they didn’t have to, that they shouldn’t.

The apathy. An entire civilisation of apathetic bystanders.

The voice didn’t offer much that weekend in the way of words, but it remained with him, offering its presence. What it didn’t give in the form of platitudes it instead gave in warmth, in shared fear mixed with quivering hope.

When the starry sky failed to soothe him, and sitting out at the lake later failed to bring him peace, he dug out his beloved and battered book and flipped to the unfinished lines of _The Squire’s Tale_. Perhaps he was a falcon, having been wooed, and then abandoned, by the tercelet that was the magical world. And perhaps the voice in his mind was Canace, nursing him back to health.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Newspaper Headlines, in the order that they appeared:
> 
> 1\. The Guardian (September 2, 1939).  
> 2\. Derby Daily Telegraph (September 3, 1939).  
> 3\. The Gloucester Citizen (September 3, 1939).  
> 4\. Portsmouth Evening News (September 3, 1939).  
> 5\. The Manchester Guardian (September 4, 1939).
> 
> Leaflet text taken from actual leaflets that were distributed announcing the National Registration Day, following the National Registration Act being passed on September 5, 1939.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning:**
> 
> This chapter, along with many of the following chapters, contains non-graphic references to WWII. These references are based on factual records from the time, including dates, locations, events. I have not manufactured or exaggerated these events.
> 
> At no point will the references to the atrocities of WWII be graphic, however they may be difficult to read about.

On Monday morning Tom received a note with his breakfast, so once he finished eating he trailed up to the first floor to the Muggle Studies office. The door was open when he arrived, and after a quick knock he was sitting down inside while a wand wave from the teacher was shutting the door.

“Don’t worry, Mr Riddle, I have your papers,” were the first words out of Stalk’s mouth, and Tom felt the tension he’d been carrying with him since the prior Wednesday suddenly vanish.

He met the professor’s eyes, searching there for anything hidden, but just saw sincerity. He appreciated that the man hadn’t beaten around the bush.

“As far as your Mrs Cole knows, your school sent its students home for the weekend to avoid any potential clerical errors with regards to Registration Day. You spent Friday and Saturday night in your bed, then returned by train on Sunday. The school has a special arrangement and the identity cards will be issued to students here, rather than in their individual family homes.”

As he was relaying all of this information he was opening a drawer and withdrawing some folded papers, which he handed over to Tom.

“That is the official story, and no one in the muggle world should be made aware of anything different. And there’s no need to bring up the details within the school either,” he added in a neutral sort of tone.

Tom glanced up from where he’d been looking over the papers, and immediately understood what was not being said. “Understood, sir. And thank you, sir, for listening, and helping to make sure that I wasn’t missed.”

It hurt, in a way, to say those words, and he could see that there was something more that the professor wanted to say, but then the moment passed and his face shifted. Finally, he said, “Be sure to keep those papers on you at all times when you’re away from Hogwarts. They can be requested of you at any time.”

He nodded. “I will, sir.”

As he was leaving, he heard Stalk clear his throat right before Tom stepped out into the corridor. “Mr Riddle,” he called out. “If you need to talk to someone about those articles, or if you need anything else, my door is open.”

Tom looked back at him, gave a nod and a final word of thanks, and headed back to his dorms.

_That was a better outcome than I was worried we would see._

Tom glanced around to see if any portraits appeared to be paying attention, then gave a small nod to show his agreement with that statement. He’d been prepared for disappointment, but thinking back to Stalk’s demeanor each time that he’d visited the classroom to review newspapers, that now seemed like too hasty of a judgment on his part. The man had certainly _seemed_ to care, going by facial expressions alone.

Then again, Slughorn gave the air of caring most sincerely, but of course he’d been no more than a waste of time.

Back in his dormitory he tucked the papers away securely in his trunk. With that taken care of he realised that he felt full of energy that had been largely absent recently, and retrieved his journal to start tinkering with its pages.

That newfound spirit carried him through the remaining months of autumn, as week by week his spell repertoire expanded, the Slytherin point total grew, and his circle of acquaintances adjusted to include a few upper years, as well as several students from other houses. Being on the house Quidditch team, even as a reserve, Rhys was becoming rather chummy with Nero Mulciber and more often than not the older boy would join them if they were sitting together in the common room. Bole, the seventh year Slytherin in Charms Club, had decided to take Tom under her wing and ambushed him one day stating authoritatively that she’d be running him through the entire expanded spell list before November’s first club meeting.

A few second and third year Ravenclaws had invited themselves to their library nook one Thursday afternoon in their free block after History, when the third years must have had a free period also. Tom had been continuing his Grindelwald study and they’d started up an interesting discussion of the conflict, which expanded into an ongoing weekly discussion of legislation, international relations, and many other political topics that Tom had wanted to learn about anyway. Surprisingly, one of these Ravenclaws was Michael Ingram, and he didn’t seem to display the same social issues that his twin sister continued to have.

If Tancred had anything to say about the blood status of those present for the discussions, he kept quiet on that matter.

Not even the muggle news reports could bring him down. Yes, the papers were full of updates on the war front, but it was much of the same. Germany and Poland were fighting each other, and Britain was ‘mobilising’, though nothing more concrete had been announced yet on what exactly that meant, other than the required military service for men ages 18 to 41. And with the National Registration Day in the past the only notices about the registration process was updates on the various offices that were still open and taking information for new births, new arrivals in the country, and so on.

November brought his next Slug Club dinner, and much to the voice’s disappointment there were no professional Quidditch players in attendance. There was however a former student who had graduated some five years prior and who now worked in the patent office at the Ministry, apparently specialising in newly invented spells, so Tom was able to strike up a conversation with her to get through the evening.

In December, he had a minor breakthrough with his journal and managed to significantly thin the pages, while maintaining their strength. It took some time applying the transfiguration and Durability Draught to all of the pages without becoming sloppy and losing the writing, but finally his journal weighed much less (though that was less of an issue) and was hardly even half an inch thick.

Now, if only he could figure out a way to bypass the need to reapply the Doubling Charm and have the book supply its own new pages when needed. . . .

When many of the students were starting to lose focus in classes and become rowdier in the corridors, the Christmas hols finally arrived, and one Saturday morning had the boys’ dormitory in a flurry of activity as Tom’s year mates packed, eager to return home to their families.

Tom was mostly staying out of their way, tucked up on his bed reading while clothing, schoolwork, and even brooms went sailing through the air, but one by one the boys finished and they all made their way up to the entrance hall and beyond, stepping into the crisp winter air and riding in a carriage up to the station.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come for a visit?” Tancred asked for the third time that week. “It’s really no trouble, and my parents would love to meet you.”

Tom’s stomach twisted a little as he smiled and shook his head. “No, you go on. I’ll be fine here. The next two weeks will fly by and then you’ll all be back.”

“They’d better not fly by too fast!” Rhys called over his shoulder as he and the others were climbing the steps onto the train.

“All right. Well if you change your mind, just send an owl,” the other boy told him sternly then clasped his hand, giving a quick squeeze before climbing aboard the train himself. A few moments later a window was opening and a mix of voices called out to him in farewell.

He waited on the platform while the train pulled out of the station then turned and set off toward the castle again, on foot, walking alongside the glassy lake.

_Any exciting plans now that you have some privacy for a few weeks?_

Tom considered. “Avoid Beery?”

There was a flicker of amusement in that corner of his mind. _Yes, well if he hasn’t caught you by now I think you’re safe. I don’t think he’d expect anyone to memorise a script in two days._

“True,” he replied, thinking. “I think I’d like to continue working with those protective enchantments, and start applying some to my trunk. And maybe look for more of those passages? I’m sure we have most of the old servants’ passages down, but there should be additional exits, at least onto the grounds, if not beyond.”

There was an odd hesitancy there, then it seemed to solidify into resolve. _I knew of a few of them. Most were destroyed by the time that I learned about them, though. Actually, one hasn’t even been built yet._

There was a complicated sort of emotion that filtered through at the last words that Tom didn’t have a hope of deciphering.

“So are you saying you’ll give me hints?” Tom asked carefully.

_Not hints, but . . . well, if you find one, I guess I can confirm if I knew about it? Or know where it leads?_

Tom shrugged.

_I only ever had a chance to use two of them. Well, maybe a third, but I didn’t spend enough time down there to see other exits._

‘Down there.’ In the dungeons, maybe?

As he continued along the edge of the water he asked, “Did you ever stay over during the hols?”

_Yes,_ came the immediate answer. _Every year. I even asked if I could stay at Hogwarts over the summer, but he never let me._

Now _that_ was an idea he hadn’t considered. He wasn’t sure who the headmaster was in the voice’s time, but maybe Dippet could be prevailed upon?

“What did you think of spending Christmas at the castle?” he asked, not really wanting to talk, but being content to listen.

_It was magical. I got my first real Christmas gifts at Hogwarts._

There was a soft, wistful sort of tone to the voice, once which Tom could understand. They carried on, discussing Christmas, and the castle, and gifts, the rest of the way around the lake and up to the main doors.

Later that weekend, after taking a break from his poking and prodding at his trunk, Tom was in the common room working through his holiday assignments when he heard his name and looked up.

“Riddle,” called a high-pitched, nasal sort of voice. He turned and saw one of the Black cousins, Walburga, approaching from the girls’ dormitories. “You stayed over again this year. Couldn’t bear to miss my incredible performance after seeing last year’s show?”

“Black,” he greeted evenly, raising an eyebrow and setting down his dip pen. “Can last year’s performance even be matched?”

The girl cackled, and Lucretia also wandered over, flipping her hair as she took a seat near Tom.

“Oh, it’s going to _marvellous_ ,” Walburga said with a gleam in her eyes. “Weasley’s been roped in again—Beery overheard me saying that it would be a shame for him not to participate in his final year at Hogwarts, a complete coincidence, I assure you—and I’ve been practicing my _Confundus_.”

Lucretia smirked and Tom gave a slight smile, though he wasn’t really sure how he felt about things. Sure, Weasley had said some not-so-nice things about many of the students in his house, but then many of his house mates did the same. But since he didn’t know who had started the animosity originally, and this was only a bit of fun during a panto, it couldn’t hurt too much, he supposed.

“It looks like more Slytherins are staying over this year,” he offered, as he’d noticed several more clusters of heads in the common room when he’d re-entered after his walk.

Lucretia nodded. “A lot of parents are busy supporting bills and going to gatherings this year, since there’s a new Minister in.”

Tom’s eyes widened a fraction; he hadn’t heard about that. He hoped Fawley’s family wasn’t too upset. “I heard that the former Minister was rather odd. Is there anything of note about the new one?”

Walburga had drifted off toward another group of students, apparently not interested in the topic, while her cousin replied. “Spencer-Moon is promising to act against Grindelwald, which is a bit of a divisive issue, but at least he’s acknowledging that Grindelwald could be a threat to us, which is more than Fawley ever did. I mean, he still has mostly focused his war on Germany, France, and America, but there’s no reason why he wouldn’t focus on Britain next.”

Tom nodded, his thoughts sifting through the topic that he’d spent much of the first term studying, and discussing with the Ravenclaws. “And the families hope to have some sort of influence on what direction he takes things now that he’s been elected?”

She made a scrunched up sort of expression, and Tom gathered that he had at least partially missed the mark. “Sort of. Yes, but also the start of a Minister’s term in office is the best time to try to slide in all sorts of legislation, since alliances, favours, and such haven’t been set in stone yet. So I’m sure there are plenty of bills about nonsense things like broom bristle lengths and cauldron thickness that don’t really matter in the grand scheme of things, except to the people who have a hand in the manufacturing and sale of those sorts of goods.”

Tom rolled his eyes. That did make sense though, in a corrupt and unpleasant sort of way.

Their conversation continued through a few other topics such as third year electives and the array of courses that were seemingly arbitrarily assigned as core subjects, and eventually she too wandered off making noises about essays she had to write.

The next morning Tom woke early but lingered in bed, trying to not be too eager for the morning post, as he didn’t want to assume that he’d be sent a gift. As he was lying there, enjoying the cozy cocoon of warmth under his blankets, he asked, “So, what is your name, anyway?”

A pause, and a tingling of discomfort. _I’m not sure that I should tell you. In case. . . ._

Tom furrowed his brow. “So we know each other then.” Then— “You lied to me!”

_I never said we didn’t know each other—_

“You did!” he exclaimed, his tone accusing. He cast his mind back, but realised as he ran through his various interactions with the entity that while they’d danced around the topic, and even discussed the whole time travel thing more directly, the voice had never actually given him a straight answer.

“So, we will meet at some point in the future, and you don’t want to impact that.”

There was so much anxiety in that corner of his mind now that he was starting to develop a slight headache. He rubbed his forehead.

_Right._

“I should play around with advanced mental arts some more. I feel like there should be a way that I can see you. And then you won’t get to hide away with your silences anymore.”

There was a further spike of anxiety at that, but then it mellowed out. _I’m sorry. I just . . . I’m trying not to think about that time period since it’s so far away, and this is just so different to what I’d expected that it’s hard to connect everything now with everything then. It’s like everyone is a different person entirely. But I’m not—I’m not ‘hiding away in silence’ to be all secretive on purpose, or anything. It’s more that I just don’t really know what to say. And I know that it’s not fair on you since you don’t really get to hide yourself away from me._

Tom could accept that, even if it was a grudging sort of acceptance.

“So, a name.”

_Ah. Well, I haven’t changed my mind in the past few minutes about that. If you want to come up with a name for me that’s fine. At some point I’ll have to decide what I want to do about certain aspects of the . . . future, but for now. . . ._

“Leaving the fate of your name in my hands. So reckless of you. One might think you were a foolish Gryffindor,” he teased.

_Well. . . ._

Tom snorted. Of course.

He reached over and plucked _The Canterbury Tales_ from his bedside table, flipping through casually despite already being well familiar with all of the characters within. A little jolt of inspiration hit him, and he smiled.

“Harry.”

There was a very strange spike of something, then an adamant: _No._

“Why not? Harry Bailey, the ‘Host’, the innkeeper. He tags along on the pilgrimage, and judges the stories that they tell.” He could feel his smile widening. “I think it works perfectly.”

There was a long silence, though he thought that little spot in his mind might burst it felt so wound-up. Finally, the voice said, _No. Definitely not._

Well, apparently the voice could be decisive at times.

He thought about the other characters in the various poems, and none quite fit. Finally, thinking of Chaucer himself, he offered, “John?”

_Any particular symbolism with this one that I should be aware of?_

Tom blinked a bit, not sure that he liked the suggestion, and certainly not as much as Harry, but then gave a little shrug. “Chaucer was good friends with John of Gaunt, who happened to be the father of Edward IV. Quite a bit of his writing was thought to have been written _for_ John. John was his patron for a time, and also had quite a bit of influence over the Crown.”

_And what, you’re the Crown?_

“It’s not a perfect metaphor,” Tom snapped, rolling his eyes. “But you do watch over me, in a way, and you’ve certainly influenced me. I imagine that isn’t something that’ll just go away, not unless we’re separated and I haven’t the first clue how to go about doing that—and I’m not sure I’d want to anyway, other than to give you the freedom of a body.”

There was silence following his outburst. Finally, the voice said, _It’s a plain name. I like it. I’ve always wanted to be ordinary._

Tom had raised an eyebrow when the voice had called it a plain name, but after the rest of the declaration, he found himself baffled. Shaking his head a little to clear it he finally dragged himself out of bed. “If you had the misfortune to be blown up by Time then I very much doubt you were either plain or ordinary.”

There was a dark sort of laughter at that, and Tom got ready to head to breakfast, though with the niggling feeling at the back of his mind that he had forgotten something.

At breakfast he was able to grasp just how much impact the change in Minister had. Whereas in the previous year there had been maybe a total of two dozen students altogether, this year at least fifty students had opted to stay over. As such the morning post was a more dramatic affair, with several owls delivering last-minute gifts. Tom smiled when he saw a familiar owl winging his way, and reached up to catch the package that it released over him.

The bundle was just as beautifully wrapped as last year, and had the same sort of malleability that the scarf did though it was larger and heavier. There was once again a small note attached to the top, addressed in Alexius’ hand.

Once he escaped the decorated hall and retreated to his dorm room he opened the note.

> _Dear Tom,_
> 
> _Festive greetings and blessings of fortune in this Yuletide and Christmas season. May your season be joyous, and your New Year candle burn bright._
> 
> _Your Friends_

At the end of the note, in a hand that Tom recognized as belonging to Rhys, was a messy postscript.

> _P.S. This should keep you warm on those walks next to the lake that you insist on taking in the middle of winter, you barmy loon. It will ALSO keep you warm at our QUIDDITCH games._

He smiled, rolling his eyes a little, then unwrapped the fine paper and withdrew the cloak.

It was heavy, and thick, made of dense boiled wool in black with an emerald lining that might have been silk. The clasps were all silver, formed to look like serpents. There were two pockets along the side seams but several more hidden along the inside hem, one of which felt like it was absolutely cavernous as when Tom reached inside he could not find its edges. Around the neck there was a thin stretch of grey fur, and the entire thing radiated warmth when he tried it on.

_That’s a very nice cloak,_ the voice finally said, after Tom had been speechless for several minutes.

“It really is,” he whispered, and swallowed. “I feel bad that I didn’t get them anything, but there’s nothing I could really give them.”

_They understand,_ the voice said in a comforting tone. _They know that you don’t have the same means that they do. And they seem to care about you. This is them showing that._

He wrestled with his emotions a bit more before he felt able to venture out to the common room to be with his house mates. They were kind words, and they did help to reassure him a little, but the feeling of unwilling selfishness didn’t leave him entirely.

Later that afternoon a group of Slytherins were making noises about starting a pick-up game of Quidditch with a few of their friends in Ravenclaw and after a brief moment of contemplation Tom grabbed his new cloak and followed them out to the pitch. As he felt the prickling of curiosity in the back of his mind he chose a seat in the stands to watch. Once the players had taken off into the air he whispered a quiet, “Happy Christmas, John.”

The warmth then expanded to envelop him like a hug.

* * *

The rest of the holidays passed relatively smoothly. The panto was an unmitigated disaster, at least to poor Beery, and Tom definitely caught sight of Murray, the flying instructor, adding what looked like Scotch whisky to a few of the staff members’ drink goblets. That certainly helped to explain some of their rosy cheeks.

Weasley didn’t show his face for the rest of the hols, while Walburga strutted about like a pampered cat. Lucretia was seen rolling her eyes quite often, though she did usually also sport a smirk, and Tom dragged himself out to watch a few more pick-up games of Quidditch, because he was thoughtful like that.

A few days before the train was due to return the students to the castle he stumbled across a new hidden passage, one that was concealed behind a mirror on the fourth floor that he had checked previously by attempting to pull the frame away from the wall, not realising he should actually step _into_ it. Nevertheless, he found a long corridor leading to an immense domed chamber with rings of seats, almost like an amphitheatre. Beyond it was a stone tunnel.

“Any hints?” he asked, his voice resonating within the large cavernous space.

_I didn’t find this one. I knew that the passage existed, but it was caved in and inaccessible by that point. I didn’t know this room was here. I think that tunnel continues off school grounds to Hogsmeade, though._

Tom nodded, a bit distracted. “I wonder what this is even here for.”

The long tunnel ended in a small cave that Tom didn’t enter, not wanting to lose track of the tunnel opening and get lost, and also not having thought to bring his cloak to ward off the chill. It took at least an hour to walk the long passage end to end, and it was eerily quiet.

On the Sunday before classes were to resume he bundled himself up and walked the long trek to the station to greet his friends once they were off the train, and rode along with them up to the front doors. Rhys immediately made a show of checking that the cloak was warm enough for Quidditch spectating and Alexius brushed off his thanks.

Later that evening, after they were all full from dinner and the boys had unpacked he showed his trunk’s security updates to Tancred, and the two of them moved on to adding many of those same enchantments to Tom’s journal.

He awoke the next morning still in the haze of contentment that had fallen over him during the break, but that fractured once he entered the Great Hall for breakfast and Professor Stalk caught his eye up at the head table. The man looked uncomfortable, his tilted sad eyebrows on full display.

Tom swallowed. He gave the teacher a small nod and sat down to a quick breakfast, and was trailing Stalk up to his classroom some ten minutes later.

“I wanted to make sure you saw this as soon as the news came out, in case you heard about it from other students who will be likewise affected during the summer,” the man said, opening his briefcase to withdraw the weekend’s papers as was his Monday ritual.

He was tense as he reached out and accepted the papers.

> _RATIONING BEGINS TODAY!_

He sat down hard in the nearest chair.

> **_THE KING, TOO, IS ON RATIONS_ **   
>  _THE Royal Family go on to_   
>  _rations today exactly the_   
>  _same as every other household_   
>  _in the country._

He flipped to the last of the pages that had been handed to him, which appeared to be a large announcement by the Ministry of Food that spanned an entire page.

> _**REASONS FOR** _   
>  _**RATIONING** _
> 
> _War has meant the re-planning of our food supplies._   
>  _Half our meat and most of our bacon, butter and sugar_   
>  _Come from overseas. Here are four reasons for rationing :—_

All of the words below that went blurry so he put the papers down, feeling his breath coming in short gasps. He clenched his fingers around the seat of his chair, focusing on staying calm. He watched as Stalk collected the pages and duplicated them, setting the new copies in a neat stack in front of Tom, while he went to the cabinets on the side wall and started putting the originals away.

He heard the noises behind him change but didn’t see the man return to the front of the room, and Tom guessed that he was being given some time to collect himself. He didn’t hear the voice at all, though he could feel the tension, the tightly-coiled fear, in the base of his skull. Finally he took a deep breath and stood.

“I will go to London this week to ensure that a ration book is collected for you.”

Tom was still looking down, wanting to simultaneously never leave this room and also flee. “Thank you, sir,” he whispered.

“And, Mr Riddle,” the professor started, sounding hesitant. “If there is a friend you can stay with for the summer, I believe that would be strongly advised.”

He gave a jerky nod, and somehow he managed to leave the classroom. He wasn’t entirely certain how he accomplished it but he also made it through his classes for the day. When his thoughts were a little more focused and coherent he found himself in the Room, a velvety black ceiling full of stars above.

“I don’t know what to do,” he found himself finally saying, the whispered words loud in the silence of the room.

_I can’t even imagine. . . . I am_ so _sorry, Tom. I know you don’t want pity, but I just don’t know what to say—_

The voice had been sounding more and more frantic, until it cut itself off.

_I’m sorry, me panicking doesn’t help anyone. I think that you should make some backup plans. For the summer._

Plans. He could make plans. He was good at plans.

“I’ll figure out a way to hide away food in my trunk, in case I need it. There were some food prep charms on the list from Charms Club; I’ll see if there are some food preservation ones. And whatever I get before the end of school I’ll duplicate, as much as I can. And I’ll make sure to get back to Wool’s before the Feather-Light Charm on my trunk fades.”

_And if that doesn’t work?_

He scrunched his eyes shut. Shame was tickling at his eyelids. “If I can’t sort out food, and I can’t get away to the Alleys to duplicate food, I’ll—” He took a breath. “I’ll talk to Tancred. I’ll swallow my pride, and I’ll ask him for help. And I’ll take the Knight Bus to the Leaky to Floo him if Mrs Cole doesn’t let me out of her sight.”

_I know you hate the idea, but I want you to know your options, as limited as they are. I don’t want you to be stuck in a bad situation. I know—_

The voice cut itself off again, though this time the tone wasn’t frantic. It was something else entirely.

“John?”

_I know what it’s like to go without much food._

Tom swallowed.

_I know rationing is different,_ the voice hurried on to say. _I just—I don’t want you to be trapped._

Later that evening when he was back in the dungeons he pulled Tancred aside and asked if the offer of refuge over the summer was still standing. His friend assured him that it was. He didn’t say anything more.

* * *

The winter passed agonizingly slowly.

Tom could tell when news of rationing made it to the other muggle-raised students as more and more drawn faces could be seen in the Great Hall during meals, and certain students carried tension around with them in their shoulders and eyes that many students were oblivious to. 

He also heard through the rumour mill of some of the muggleborn students who had non-magical older siblings, out of school, or muggle fathers, who had been called for military service. Those students were the most anxious-looking at breakfast, always scanning the sea of owls during morning post, hoping for news, though dreading the same.

At the end of January a storm rolled in that blew snow drifts as tall as lorries against the front of the castle, and ice pellets whipped through the air sharp as needles. Herbology, first year flying lessons, and Quidditch practices were all cancelled for a week while the storm raged, which did nothing to improve the tense moods within the castle.

February brought news of German planes being spotted in northern England and Scotland. It also brought news of more bombings in London, attributed to the Irish Republican Army, which Tom had all but forgotten about.

And then March brought news of more rationing measures, with meat now being restricted in addition to the butter, sugar, bacon, and ham that had been included in the January announcement. It made him wonder just where the food that they ate in the Great Hall came from every day, given how high the platters were always stacked, the overabundance of food frankly shocking.

Easter was relatively early that year, and by the end of March he was glad to have a bit of a break from classes, and from the effort of putting on his more sociable ‘face’ when away from the privacy of the Room, or the dorms.

He had just finished the last of his assignments over the break and was just sitting at his usual table in the library, not really thinking about much at all, when the sound of a book dropping down in front of him with a ‘thump’ made him startle.

“There we go. I wasn’t sure if you’d faded enough to turn into a ghost.”

Tom turned toward his friend. “Pardon?”

Tancred gave him a steady look. “You’ve hardly spoken to anyone, except during classes, and when affecting an obviously false level of energy if you think it’s required. Even Avery’s noticed.”

Tom raised his eyebrows. That was certainly noteworthy, as Rayner had the tendency to disappear semi-regularly to presumably spend time with other friends. “I apologise. I didn’t mean to upset anyone.”

The other boy sighed. “I know. Clearly there’s something upsetting you. I was waiting to see if it was something you wanted to talk about, and Alexius and Rhys are awkward with this type of thing. I won’t push you, of course, but I did want you to know that we care, and we _are_ here if there’s anything we can do to help.”

Tom pursed his lips, oddly moved. He thought about what to say, and finally settled on something that wouldn’t be too personal. “The news about the muggle war is getting worse,” he said quietly. “I—live in a muggle area, and I’ll be affected by things. It’s stressing me out,” he admitted.

“That must be difficult,” his friend said, his black eyes warm. “What can we do to help?”

Tom sent his eyes up to the ceiling, not knowing how to answer that. He wrestled with a few possible answers, not really sure what to say.

_Can he owl you food?_

Tom’s initial reaction was to mentally recoil from the thought. He could still feel Tancred’s eyes on him.

_I . . . had a terrible summer one year. I was locked up by my guardians and barely fed. My friends sent me care packages when they could._

That was horrible. But he had promised to swallow his pride. . . .

Latching on to that thought and not letting go, he lowered his head again to meet his friend’s eyes. “They’ve introduced food rationing. The government is controlling how many portions of food people can purchase, and they keep adding new restrictions to the list. The place where I live, we already didn’t have a large food supply, so now—things will be difficult this summer,” he finished.

He pursed his lips, not wanting to scrape up those last words and make the request, when his friend was already speaking.

“So we’ll send you some food. Are you able to receive owl post, where you stay?” There was no judgment in his gaze, no condescension, no derision.

Tom nodded. “I don’t see why not. Probably best that an owl arrives at night though, so that it doesn’t prompt any questions. I—I stay in London.”

“Then consider it settled,” he stated in a decisive sort of tone. Clearly reading something in Tom’s expression his voice then softened, and he said, “Tom, we’re your friends. We won’t let you suffer.”

Tom had to look away then.

_I like your friends,_ the voice suddenly offered, quietly. It sounded almost surprised by the admission.

A minute or so passed, until finally he heard Tancred continue in a normal voice. “I heard from Bole that you seemed to do really well in this term’s Charms Club so I had my father send this over from our library at home. You’ll want to be careful practicing these, of course, but it’ll give you something to do since I’m sure you’re dying of boredom in class.”

And as Tom pulled over the book, reading the words _Curses and Countercurses_ on the cover, and finally looked up again to share a small smile with the boy sitting across the table.

That glimmer of hope, carried him through the month of April, when the main news was that of the newly-introduced Purchase Tax. Tom knew that there were battles being fought across Europe, but it was hard to associate the names of locations with anything real, at least as real as the war measures that were affecting Britain. And he realised that this very mentality was what plagued the country in the ongoing Grindelwald conflict, but now that he was in the midst of it, he found himself a guilty party.

May brought news that the Prime Minister had resigned, and the new one who took over the post kicked off his time in office with a barrage of speeches that every publication relished. Well, they were certainly poetic, and evocative. It also brought the Emergency Powers Act, which apparently gave the government complete and total control over every British citizen, and the vagueness and complete authority that was conveyed was concerning.

At the end of the month a Saturday afternoon was designated as the Speed-Charms Tournament that had been described back in that first Charms Club meeting, and while Tom had a bit of an idea of what to expect from it, he’d been quickly enlightened when the tournament started out with a demonstration between Smethwyck and Merrythought, who each fired off thirty charms in rapid succession after a small sphere projected the spells’ names, arranged seemingly at random, into the air between them. There was a stopwatch to monitor the times, and a large scoreboard had been drawn up on the blackboard at the front of the class.

They were both fast spellcasters, that was certain. But what caught Tom’s attention was the next demonstration when Smethwyck performed another round, but this time _silently_.

He would need to practice nonverbal casting next year.

With that they were each paired up and set off to complete their attempts in front of the group. With the scoring based on time as well as spell effectiveness, the older students certainly had an edge, though there was more than one upper year who still had not managed to successfully cast at least one of the spells covered that year.

Tom ended up placing decently well, ending up on par with the strongest of the Hufflepuff fourth years. He found himself smirking slightly when Alcott, the Gryffindor who’d been so opposed to the idea of dark charms in September, placed in the lowest grouping of students along with several second years. A sixth year ended up winning, sneaking in a few points ahead of Bole, and was blushing a bright red with wide, shocked eyes when she realised that she’d won. The fifty points to Ravenclaw prompted quite a bit of cheering in the club, and Tom was happy enough to clap along for the well-deserved win.

A few days after the tournament, as the inhabitants of the school were starting to study in earnest for exams, forms were distributed among the second years that they’d need to complete to register for electives. Tom already had a fairly strong idea of what classes he’d want to add to his timetable, and was the first to volunteer that information to his dorm mates as they gathered in their room one evening.

“I can see Arithmancy and Ancient Runes,” Rhys was saying from his spot on his bed, absently nibbling on the tip of his quill. “Those are the bookish classes with plenty of assignments. But Divination? Why?”

Tom raised an eyebrow. “Knowing the future is power. Why restrict myself to one type of divination in arithmancy when I can study multiple?”

“Huh?” He looked confused. “Isn’t arithmancy complicated magic math?”

Tancred let out a very uncharacteristic snort and then looked surprised, as if it had slipped out involuntarily. “Sometimes, Rhys, I wonder if you’re muggleborn. Honestly, the things you say.” Snickering softly he turned his attention back to his own form.

Alexius was still looking at Tom, a thoughtful expression wrinkling his features. “I’d have thought Care of Magical Creatures would be in your list, given your ability with snakes.”

Tom shrugged. “I see the use of magical creatures, certainly. But I have no interest in taking care of them.”

The other boy nodded, seeming to understand his view. “I myself plan to take Creatures and Ancient Runes. My family estate has a number of creature populations on it that I’d do well to understand so that my father trusts me with the property when I’m older.”

Rhys was still biting at the end of his quill when Tancred spoke up. “I think I’ll take the same as Tom. I don’t have any strange creatures to worry about, and have no interest in pursuing anything related as a career. I might also add Muggle Studies, but I’m undecided.”

“Muggle Studies,” Rhys suddenly said, then stopped for a few seconds to spit out specks of quill that he’d managed to bite off. “I’ll take that—it’s not too challenging, I’ve heard. Rhosyn took Creatures when she was here and she said it was good fun, so I’ll take that as well. Maybe not to N.E.W.T. level though, she said that the creatures got quite menacing after fifth year.”

Tom looked over at Rayner and saw that he appeared to be reading a letter, and wasn’t even following the conversation. As Tom turned back to his form and made the appropriate notations he heard the other boy speak up suddenly, saying only, “Arithmancy and Creatures.”

_I took Creatures and Divination, though I only chose those because they seemed like the easiest choices. I really wasn’t a great student,_ the voice said, sounding somewhere between regretful and embarrassed.

Tom flipped open his journal, writing in a small script in one of the corners, _How did you find them?_

_I have mixed feelings, to be honest. I hated Divination and enjoyed Creatures, at the time. In retrospect though?_ There was a pause, and a sensation of the voice collecting its thoughts. _Divination was terrible because the teacher was a complete and utter fraud, but at the same time I treated it like it was a joke and didn’t even bother to learn the subject. As for Creatures, I was attached to it because I considered the teacher to be a friend. But it started out far too dangerous for third years, then when someone was inevitably badly injured, he did a one-eighty and we studied flobberworms instead for an entire term. Neither of those teachers are here now, though._

_And what about after third year?_ The words were tiny, squeezed in next to his earlier ones.

_I . . . didn't make it past the end of third year._ Silence, then, _Kaboom._

Tom blinked. He hadn’t realised that the voice, the entity, had been so young when things had fallen apart.

He heard the other boys starting to stir then and he quickly shut his journal, then put his electives form with his potions text for the next day so that he could hand it in to Slughorn. The next day was Monday, his weekly day for catching up on news articles, and he hoped there would be nothing new.

June brought smaller newspaper issues. He felt a hint of optimism when he saw Stalk pull the papers from his briefcase, and it must have shown on his face as the man was quick to squash that.

“Unfortunately, rationing has been updated to some rather stringent print restrictions, so expect thinner news publications from now on,” he informed Tom, sounding weary.

Tom nodded in understanding and flipped through the pages, making his usual duplicates so that he could read through them in more detail later, then looked up again as the professor’s throat cleared.

“Here, Mr Riddle. This was printed and distributed across Britain.”

He accepted the leaflet nervously.

> _If the_   
>    
>  ** INVADER **   
>    
>  _Comes_
> 
> _WHAT TO DO — AND HOW TO DO IT  
>   
> _

Tom swallowed and read through each section, seeing instructions on what to do in case of various types of attacks, when to question directions from a military officer, how to report suspicious behaviour, the types of items to hide away like bicycles, maps, food. . . .

If anything, this leaflet made things seem even more real than before.

“That is your copy. I’ve secured several for the students who reside in muggle homes.”

Tom nodded as he lowered the leaflet and put it with the other papers. “Thank you, sir.”

A few minutes later when he was gathering everything a thought occurred to him. “Sir, I’ve chosen my electives, and I’ve decided not to take Muggle Studies. Will I—May I still come by to keep myself informed of the news?”

He cut a glance away from his papers up to the teacher. It was becoming more and more difficult to look him in the eye, as each time he saw the man he looked more exhausted, and sad. It was no easier today.

“Of course. As I’ve said before I am not one to keep news and information away from a student. That goes for any student, not just those who study in my classroom. And Mr Riddle, I am certain that the topics that we’d cover in my class are ones that you are already more than familiar with. Really, don’t concern yourself at all.”

Feeling reassured, he thanked the professor one last time before heading back to his rooms to tuck the papers away.

When Italy declared war on Britain and France, the first thought that passed through Tom’s head was that he was glad exams were over, as he was sure that otherwise he’d be a nervous wreck. As it was, after he finished scouring the newspapers for any additional information, he headed straight for the Room and didn’t leave until he’d gathered quite a few more valuable items than he’d pinched at the end of his first year. He didn’t exactly know how difficult it would be to pawn these, given the state of things, but he would absolutely try.

Finally, the morning after the Leaving Feast during which it was announced that Slytherin had apparently won, the sense of dread that Tom had felt mounting for much of the year reached its peak. It was time to ride the Hogwarts Express back to London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Newspaper Headlines, in the order that they appeared:
> 
> 1\. Daily Mirror (January 8, 1940).  
> 2\. Daily Mirror (January 8, 1940).  
> 3\. Daily Record (January 8, 1940).
> 
> 40 million copies of the “If the invader comes” leaflet were printed and distributed in June 1940. This was just one of several official wartime leaflets that were made to inform the public on how to respond to a possible threat.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning:**
> 
> This chapter, along with many of the following chapters, contains non-graphic references to WWII. These references are based on factual records from the time, including dates, locations, events. I have not manufactured or exaggerated these events.
> 
> At no point will the references to the atrocities of WWII be graphic, however they may be difficult to read about.

“Anyone fancy a game of chess?”

The boys were in a compartment on the train and Rayner was in an oddly chipper mood. He was all smiles, all relaxed body language, and like an entirely different person to the boy who had been sharing their dorm all year. Tom watched him as Rhys immediately agreed to play, wondering at the change.

The game was a long one, and the two players seemed to be fairly well matched, as far as Tom could tell. Their play styles couldn’t be more different, however. The moment the first piece was moved on the board Rayner’s face slipped into a mask of extreme focus, his eyes fixated on each play, while Rhys was much more animated, sometimes leaning forward intently and other times carrying on a side conversation with the rest of the group, hardly glancing back at the board before moving his next piece.

Alexius had started a conversation about summer plans, and Tancred was sharing that he would have some extended family visiting the country, which occasioned some very odd looks in the compartment.

“Family? But I thought—” Rhys blurted, then cut off whatever he was going to say next. Based on the look that Rayner was giving him, it was probably something tactless.

“The branch that still lives in France, I gather?” Alexius asked smoothly, ignoring the ‘oh’ that Rhys mouthed off to the side.

“Yes. Nozéa’s parents reconnected with my own after the events in Paris reached the news. It must have been a startling realisation that their branch of the family is doomed. My parents have taken the correspondence slowly though, and only really responded to one or two letters per year.”

“Your cousins are planning for marriage, then?” Rayner asked.

Tancred lifted a shoulder, the gesture lazy, but his facial expression betrayed a hint of tension. “They would be foolish to not have that as a goal. But I’ve been assured that I won’t be pushed into anything directly, as long as I keep my family’s interests in mind.”

Tom felt like he was only really understanding about half of what was being said, and missing everything that was left unsaid. Paris? Whose marriage? Surely not Tancred’s!

“How is her family? I don’t think I’ve personally met any of the lines that they married into.”

The conversation carried on, with references to many names that Tom had never heard of, and he deduced that they were pureblood lines that resided in France. At last he felt like he could find a foothold when he heard Rhys join the conversation.

“Hey Alex, do you figure Sluggy will invite Tancred to the Slug Club now? If the other branch is visiting Britain this summer, then they’ll probably be seen in the important circles. And it should dawn on plenty of people that their line is finished.”

The other boy frowned. “Perhaps. It may be worth mentioning a few things in passing to him, to help him catch on. I’m not certain what his summer plans entail, and whether he’ll be crossing paths with others who might pass the word on to him.”

That would be nice, Tom reflected, if another of their group could be invited to those gatherings. Not that he would hide among his peers and forgo speaking with the influential guests, but even so, it would make the evenings less taxing on his patience.

The trolley passed by and unlike on the previous train journeys, he found himself with arms full of cauldron cakes and pumpkin pasties right after the compartment door slid shut. “That’s not sustenance for the summer, mind,” Tancred told him in a serious tone, “but you could probably use a treat.”

Tom smiled, tucking into a pasty while he secured everything else in his trunk. Despite his prior thoughts, he was beginning to think of these boys as good friends.

Before the train arrived at the station Tom had switched his attire to his Wool’s tunic and cast a few last-minute spells on his belongings, and as he bade farewell to his friends he set off into the city.

He took a long, meandering route, wanting to observe the changes in scenery and also scope out different shops where he could try to sell off his pilfered goods. And as he wandered the streets he noted some changes immediately. Posters were mounted at every block, bearing notices about rationing, how to be prepared for German invasion, and any number of other war-related messages. As he walked by streets that contained shops he saw signage installed along the pavement indicating where to queue with ration books, and indeed he also saw some of those queues, comprised of women old and young, all looking tired and stressed.

He was cautious with his sales, only pawning a few items in each of the shops he found that accepted those types of transactions. He was nervous the entire time, worried that he would be hauled off to the nearest policeman—or worse, military officer, of which there were many out patrolling—but finally he sold the last necklace and tucked away the coins.

Three pounds sterling. He almost couldn’t believe it.

His heart rate was like a woodpecker’s drum, fast and merciless, as he quickly made his way away from the last shop and rather than stop at the embankment and risk the charms on his trunk wearing off, he instead walked directly to Wool’s.

_Is it just me or are the streets quieter than they were last summer?_

Tom walked past the various workhouses, hearing the sounds of workers coming from within, but also saw that the streets were empty. At this time of day, there should definitely be children out playing. Maybe they were being kept inside for safety?

After arriving back at Wool’s and quickly letting Mrs Cole know he’d returned he headed up to his room, sorting out his trunk and belongings and propping his window open. Then he tripped down the stairs for a quick but bland dinner, and retreated to his room once again.

He was lying on top of his bed, letting his mind drift until it caught hold of something that he could work on, when a niggling thought drew his attention. Latching onto it he opened his trunk and removed the advanced Occlumency book that Tancred had—given him? Loaned him? He wasn’t exactly certain. He pulled it out and flipped through the pages until he reached the section that he was looking for.

“Have you ever used a Pensieve?” he asked quietly, scanning the descriptions on the page in front of him.

_No, I don’t think that word is familiar._

“Apparently they are used to store memories, and you can view memories that are being held, including those belonging to other people. I wonder, if I were to drop into a memory in a Pensieve, would we both be in there?”

He could feel the curiosity coming from that spot in his mind. _That sounds like it could be something worth trying, if you wanted. I don’t know where you’d get one of those, though._

Tom flipped a few pages. “It looks like a bowl covered in runes. I don’t know how complicated it would be to make one, but maybe I’ll have a better sense once I read through the book for Ancient Runes this summer?”

There was some amusement then, a laugh. _Only you would decide to make a complicated magical artifact after only reading some beginner’s course material._

Tom huffed. “Well, I didn’t say _that_.” But he smiled anyhow.

After flipping through that section a bit more he decided there was nothing else he could do on that front without additional resources, so instead he turned to a section farther along that mentioned some aspects of Legilimency. Sure, within the context of this book it was more to help with how to trick or eject a Legilimens, but if he himself could learn to use the art, that would be one more method of protecting himself in his arsenal.

He hadn’t bothered to seek out other texts on the subject, not knowing how he’d even practice such a thing. But since it didn’t seem like a wand was necessarily required, as there wasn’t always a spell cast in order to pick up on surface thoughts or detect lies, he could possibly practice on some of Wool’s more delightful residents.

The voice seemed a bit conflicted once he shared the thought, but that was fine. Tom wasn’t planning on delving deep into their psyche, and he wouldn’t interfere unless he caught any malicious plans involving himself. He didn’t care what they got up to as long as it didn’t affect him.

He hadn’t realised how long he spent reading but when a sudden pounding on his door made him jump, he saw that it was dark outside. Completely and utterly dark.

“Tom!” he heard a voice hiss from outside his door. “Open this door right now, young man!”

He dropped the book into his trunk after marking his place and rose to unlock and open the door. He’d barely turned the handle when it swung open, and would have smacked into him had he not darted to the side. Martha swept past him to shut off the light, and he could see a small lantern on the floor in the hallway where she must have left it.

“What are you doing in here?” she demanded, looking both furious and terrified.

“Reading?” he replied cautiously, completely taken aback.

“Reading! At night! Goodness Tom, you’d think that they didn’t have the blackout at your school.” She was bustling around the room now, leaning her head out of the window and looking swiftly about, before ducking back through the window frame.

Seemingly done with whatever she was checking, she returned to the door, but not without another stern look at him. Despite her being in her twenties she looked like she’d aged a decade over the past year, a few streaks of grey visible in her wiry hair and some lines forming on her forehead.

“No lights after dark,” she said firmly, then she was out the door and down the corridor.

Slowly, Tom went to shut the door and sat back down on his bed. “What on earth was that.”

And the apparent blackout, country-wide as he later learned, wasn’t the only strange thing to happen. Tom was curious to find a complete lack of requests to visit Stockwell, ones which had been a daily occurrence the summer prior, particularly from the girls. If he didn’t know better he would think that the other orphanage had never existed.

After trying to glean some thoughts using Legilimency, which was all in all tiring and immensely difficult, he finally cornered Amy one morning after breakfast, not wanting to suffer through a trying conversation with any of the others.

After he asked what had happened to Stockwell, fearing news of something terrible like a bomb, Amy seemed to forget that she was trying to shrink against the wall and instead slumped, hanging her head.

“They were one of the ones to get evacuated to the countryside,” she admitted, her voice small.

“What do you mean?” he asked. “When did it happen? Who all was evacuated?”

“The same day the war started, September first. Before it was even confirmed that Britain was joining in the war. A bunch of children were sent away from the city. Stockwell was, so was Southwark, the children in the workhouses, many of the families in the area too.”

So it wasn’t news of a bomb. But it somehow made him angrier.

“And why wasn’t Wool’s evacuated?”

“I—” Her eyes were wide, and she was trembling. He took a step back and thought, not for the first time, that he probably shouldn’t have scared her so badly in that cave once upon a time. Finally she collected herself, and stuttered, “I d-don’t know.”

He gave a curt nod and retreated to his room, Amy taking the opportunity to slink away. _Why_ hadn’t Wool’s been evacuated? There was a roiling sort of anger in his stomach.

And if it had been? Would he have returned from Hogwarts to find the building empty or, more likely, transformed into a wartime factory or military post?

Just as he was getting worked up over that thought he calmed, remembering that Stalk had been to Wool’s after the evacuations had allegedly taken place, and he would have been able to pass that information along had the orphanage been gone. But if Tom hadn’t gone out of his way to ask about his registration, and get his papers. . . .

That night his first ‘care package,’ as the voice had called them, arrived and it served as a brief distraction from the simmering anger within him. After taking the bundle and tucking it away in his trunk he sent the owl off with a note of thanks, which he’d written ahead once he learned that he wouldn’t have a light to read or write by at night. He wasn’t sure what his friends had decided to send, but it would surely beat what they were eating at Wool’s.

It turned out that he had been right to worry. Sure, it was still a fairly limited list of foods that were rationed, but when he passed by the queues of women when he was allowed out into the neighbourhood he looked past them to the empty produce crates, and the rising prices of other goods.

Other than late at night Martha was often in those long queues for much of the day, purchasing what she could for the orphanage, while the children were put to work in the garden. At some point during the last year Wool’s had also obtained a few chickens, and while Tom was grateful for the egg that he would get every few days when it was his turn, he couldn’t help but feel somewhat guilty about the food that he was being supplied by his friends. But, he wasn’t going to divulge his secret and help things with his food stock, as he would be the first to fall under suspicion and he didn’t want to know what the penalty was for supplying illicit food under the new rationing laws.

Tom had been living with these new conditions for about two weeks when he managed to catch the end of a radio broadcast in Mrs Cole’s office, and he and a few of the other residents crowded around her door to ask about it.

“Mrs Cole! How far away is Wales?”

“Are the Germans coming here next?”

“What did they mean in the report, what’s happening?”

There was a barrage of questions, and Tom was expecting Mrs Cole to shoo them all away. Instead, she led them to the dining hall and had everyone take a seat.

“Does everyone remember what the sirens sound like?” she asked, and received many nods and subdued affirmative noises, while Tom guessed that this was something he had missed during the school year. “Good. Now if you hear that siren, what do you do?”

One of the boys quietly said, “Stay here.”

Mrs Cole nodded. “That’s right. And we will all make our way down to the cellar, and stay there until the all clear. Now, if you are outside and not here at Wool’s when you hear a siren, what do you do?”

A mix of boys and girls tossed out answers then, naming a number of the nearby workhouses that had basements.

Mrs Cole nodded. “Very good. And I know that you’ve all been good and have kept your lights off after dark, and it’s very important that you continue that.”

She took a deep breath, then spoke. “According to the report, many planes flew over Wales today and dropped bombs on the city. I don’t want you to be scared, since you are all very safe here, but that doesn’t mean that we can forget about the important lessons we’ve been taught this year about being careful. Many people were hurt in Wales today, and we’re lucky that we all have each other. That means that we are all to look out for each other, right?”

There were some sniffles from somewhere in the group, but Tom couldn’t drag his eyes away from the matron.

“Now, to answer your question Eric, Wales is to the west of us. It’s quite far from here. Do you remember when we used to visit the sea? Well Wales is even farther away than that.”

Tom pursed his lips. Yes, that was technically true, though if the Germans were flying all the way to Wales then they could presumably fly over London too, since they would be passing by that way.

None of the children were really saying anything further, so Mrs Cole sent them off again before shutting herself in her office. As Tom passed by to climb the stairs, he thought he heard the clinking of glass from beyond her door.

Later, Tom learned about the newest updates to rationing, and as the tea that remained in the kitchen soon became as precious as gold, he wondered if Britain would survive with any of its soul intact.

* * *

Tom’s letter from Hogwarts arrived in the last week of July and included with the book list was a small slip of parchment that appeared to be a permission form for visiting Hogsmeade. Curious, he read over the meagre amount of information that was included on the form and gave a hollow laugh when he considered asking Mrs Cole to sign it.

“John? Did you ever visit Hogsmeade? You said that you did make it to third year.”

 _I did. I didn’t have permission, but I did sneak out. And I was threatened with expulsion when I was caught. I was an idiot, sometimes._ There was a rueful sort of tone to that, and Tom felt his mouth quirk a little.

“What was it like?”

A flicker, then, a bit like a sigh. _It was a nice escape. That year. . . . There were Dementors at Hogwarts, and the castle felt like a cage. Even more so when all of the students except for me were allowed to escape to the village for the day. The shops were nice, I suppose, and Honeydukes chocolate is magical, but mostly it was exciting just to have the freedom that I was rarely allowed._

Tom had shuddered at the mention of Dementors; he hadn’t encountered one, of course, but the descriptions they’d studied in Defence class made them sound vile. But he could understand the desire to escape a cage.

“I’m not sure what I’d do there, other than walk around. I don’t suppose you remember the prices of things being affordable there, compared to London?”

_I don’t really remember there being second hand shops, and from what I recall the prices were about the same as Diagon Alley. Then again I wasn’t really paying that much attention—I . . . was left a decent amount of money from my parents._

There was a guilty tendril then, but Tom mentally swatted it away. And besides, it didn’t make much sense to dwell given that it wasn’t a sure thing that he’d be permitted to go.

He did find himself with tip-of-the-tongue syndrome though, after their conversation lulled into silence. There was something. . . .

After a few minutes with a finger tapping against his lips, trying to sift through his thoughts and grab hold of the one that was so far eluding him he shrugged and made his way downstairs. He heard voices coming from Mrs Cole’s office, muffled by the closed door, so he lingered on the stairs to listen.

“—the board, but they’re saying only ones with relatives—”

“—only reasonable for parents to be worried—”

“—can’t imagine—so far away—”

“—but Canada—”

“—suppose it’s safe?”

There was quite a lot of interference from the radio, so it was hard for Tom to pick out entire sentences, and even more difficult to determine what they were talking about. From the sounds of the voices Mrs Cole had several adults, possibly nearby neighbours, squeezed into the small room with her.

_I don’t know what that could be about._

He loitered on the stairs for another half hour, only hearing enough additional snippets to gather that something was happening and it involved children, and the grown ups were both upset and relieved by whatever it was. Mrs Cole seemed particularly conflicted.

Finally, the door opened and the group left, so Tom slipped down the rest of the steps and caught the matron’s attention.

“Mrs Cole, I’ll need to go purchase my school things today,” he announced, hoping it wouldn’t be a fight. When she didn’t do much other than give a distracted nod he decided to push his luck. “And the school sent me this form that you’ll need to sign,” he added, producing the note.

She didn’t do much more than glance at the parchment before signing and returning it, which had Tom biting his lip. He was already halfway up the stairs to hide the form away before she changed her mind when he heard her parting words.

“Be careful, Tom.”

It was strange, he reflected some twenty minutes later as he was walking the streets of Lambeth. He’d known Mrs Cole as long as he could remember, and even in difficult winters, or years when sickness never really seemed to leave the orphanage for more than a week before pressing back in, she had always been a fierce force to be reckoned with. Now though, she seemed . . . not defeated, but lost? Tired? It made him wonder just how much she was dealing with that the children weren’t privy to.

The walk up to Charing Cross Road was just as dreary as the journey back to the orphanage had been a month prior. Though, as soon as he crossed the threshold of the Leaky Cauldron it was like all of the worries of the war were wiped away, as it looked identical to his previous two visits.

He crossed through to Diagon Alley and started with his usual stop in at Gringotts to exchange a portion of his muggle money and withdraw coins from the assistance fund. He was pleased to see that he received more coins this year than he previously had, and figured that he had an increased allowance due to his larger course load, now that he had some electives to purchase for.

He first stopped by the second hand book shop and picked out his course texts, then decided to make some purchases at the robe shop before browsing for additional books. By the end of his school year his robes were a good several inches too short, and he wouldn’t be getting any shorter. And while he was there he chose a few sets of non-school robes for not too much coin, along with some non-robe clothing that could probably pass for muggle. He wouldn’t be seen wearing grey Wool’s tunics anymore while away from the orphanage, if he could help it.

Finally, his arms full of his purchases thus far and still holding quite a bit of coin, he returned to the book shop.

 _What are you thinking for light reading this year?_ There was a teasing tone to the voice, and Tom rolled his eyes as he made his way to a secluded corner to respond.

“Ideally,” he replied quietly while he scanned the book spines, “I’d like to study a bit more about Legilimency, since that other book only covered so much. Otherwise, that spellcrafting we played around with in the third term of Charms Club was interesting, and I wouldn’t mind delving a bit more into that. Smethwyck said it wouldn’t be covered in her regular class until N.E.W.T. level, and that’s ages away.”

_Spellcrafting could be useful. I wonder what the club will be like for people who have been in it previously? It didn’t look like the others were bored, but was any of it a repeat? Or does she have possibly seven year’s worth of new spells to teach the group?_

Tom shrugged; he’d learned that Smethwyck was an absolute master at her craft, and was certain that if nothing else, the club would continue to be interesting.

_Are you thinking of joining Duelling this year as well?_

He tilted his head, thinking. “Maybe. I think I’ll see how full my timetable is first then decide.” He sensed what he thought was laughter then, and rolled his eyes again.

He ended up leaving with an advanced Charms book along with one that seemed to be an intensive guide to spellcrafting that looked practically new, as if it had never been used. After not having any success with the subject of Legilimency he briefly stopped in at Flourish and Blotts, but the only text there cost two galleons, which Tom promptly scoffed at before stepping back out onto the street.

He did take a leisurely walk down Knockturn, making sure his pace was a confident one, and not meeting the gaze of the hags and other interesting characters that were about. He did slow his pace briefly outside of a shop called Borgin and Burkes, taking a moment to look at the most intriguing displays in the window, but didn’t go in; at this point he had some savings left and wanted to keep those intact in case of emergencies.

Finally, as he arrived back at the Leaky Cauldron he had a thought, and instead of departing immediately he flagged down the barman.

“Good day, young man! What can I help you with?”

“Hello, sir. I was wondering if you happened to know the price of fare for the Knight Bus,” he asked, wanting to confirm that tip he’d obtained from the voice the summer prior.

“I sure do! It is two sickles a journey, and another 14 to 25 knuts for the extras. Anything else I can help with?”

He opened his mouth to ask about those ‘extras’ then decided it likely didn’t matter, so he thanked the man and went on his way.

As he was walking through muggle London the voice piped up to answer that question.

_By extras he probably means hot chocolate, toothbrush, and some other things that I forget. Nothing you’d need—or want, really, on that thing._

Tom looked around but as he walked along Whitehall, the people who were nearby seemed to be occupied enough in their own affairs that they hardly even looked his way. “That is absolute theft. Fourteen knuts—fourteen _pence_ for a hot chocolate!?” he muttered, scandalised.

_Right. And they don’t even have the excuse of a sugar ration._

Tom grimaced, both at the rationing but also at the thought of the outrageous price. “I have a bit over three galleons leftover, and a few shillings. I think I’m ready for an emergency but I’d really rather not have to spend more than necessary.”

There was a tendril of warmth then, one that reached out to him and offered comfort, and he let out a small sigh. “Thank you, John.”

* * *

The following weeks were spent learning the new course material, in Tom’s case, and having secretive gatherings in hushed tones, in the case of Mrs Cole, Martha, and some of the neighbours. Tom tried a few more times to listen in but the only new piece of information that he’d picked up was that whatever it was, it involved some organisation called the ‘C.O.R.B.’ The voice wasn’t familiar with it either.

The care packages from his friends continued. With each of them he’d received a small note, but Tancred had written actual letters, telling him about his cousin and her parents, and the stories that she was sharing with them about France. Within each of his missives he also included a few lines telling Tom to take care of himself, and they made him smile.

He also made some headway with his Legilimency project, once he’d taken some time to actually talk to the other Wool’s residents while doing chores with them. He realised that he’d been so accustomed to feeling odd emotions that weren’t his own due to his connection to the voice that when he was picking up emotions from those he was practicing on, the additional input was slipping by. He wasn’t sure if he’d be able to attempt any more direct applications, but he thought that he might be able to practice finessing at least that skill when he was back at Hogwarts.

One week into August they were gathered in the dining hall once more while Mrs Cole shared with them the news of the bombing of a ‘Midland Town.’ She then reassured them all that the Midlands were ‘just as far away as Wales’ and that they shouldn’t worry, that they were perfectly safe here in London. He bit his tongue rather than point out that the Midlands was also a very large and vague sort of location, as Wales was, and that the bombers were flying over from _somewhere_.

It was a Saturday two weeks later that Tom heard a sound that chilled him to his core, and as he was ushered along with the rest of the residents down to the cellar where they sat awake all night, he understood Mrs Cole’s mention of a siren earlier that summer. He didn’t think he would ever forget that sound.

The voice remained deathly silent. So did all of the older children. A few of the very young ones cried at a few intervals during the night, but there was no conversation, no words.

An eternity later the all clear sounded, and he bolted up, eyes dry and scratchy and limbs stiff, to jog outside. He could hear the sounds of movement within the workhouses as he raced past, scanning the streets of Lambeth, not seeing anything out of the ordinary except wide, tired eyes from those who were looking outside.

But then he reached the river, and on the north side there was smoke, stretching as far west as the direction of Regent’s Park, possibly out in West Ham, and as far east as Whitechapel, or maybe even Stepney—

He stumbled to a stop, his eyes burning now and not from his exhaustion, his breath coming in gasps, his thoughts stuttering in circles—

 _Tom_. He latched onto that voice and held on tightly. _Tom, your plan. Get yourself out of there. Please._

After taking a minute to catch his breath he raced back to Wool’s, whipping past the sombre group of children who were milling about in entryway while Martha was putting together a sad breakfast, and barged into his room, taking mere moments to ensure everything was in his trunk before hauling it downstairs. He knocked at Mrs Cole’s office door and pushed it open without waiting, told her he was going to school _now_ , and left, walking as quickly as he could while managing his cumbersome trunk.

After being stopped twice by wardens and having to provide papers he made it to the Leaky Cauldron, dropped his trunk next to the bar while he leaned on it, breathing hard, still running purely on adrenaline. “Excuse me, sir, may I use your Floo?”

He had a vague sort of plan, one that had looked different back during the school year. Once Tom the barman had shown him to the fireplace and pointed out the pot of Floo powder he asked, “Do you know where I might find a room to stay in Hogsmeade?”

The man looked a bit confused, but answered regardless. “Well there’s the Three Broomsticks of course, lovely place, quite a cozy atmosphere. You might also try the Hog’s Head. Not the finest place, I must say, but if you don’t want to rent one of my rooms here. . . .” He trailed off leadingly but Tom was already thanking him and tossing the powder into the grate, calling out the destination and stepping inside.

When he spun out of the grate and into the main room of the Hog’s Head, coughing up soot, he found himself in a grimy dark room that smelled like the outdoor areas of the London Zoo. Looking about he took in the dirty booths, dirty bar, dirty floor, and had the passing thought that this was probably the best of the two options, as it could hardly cost a fortune to stay here.

He dragged his trunk up to the bar and waited for the barman to turn around. When he did he was graced with a grunt and a suspicious squint from a scruffy man with long, dirty hair. Definitely not a hint of cozy in here.

“What’ll you want, then,” the man asked in a gruff tone.

“I’d like a room please, sir, for the next week. I’ll be leaving on Sunday.” He was still coughing, and there was a thick coating of soot in his throat that was making his breath feel like more of a wheeze.

The man’s blue eyes seemed to narrow further at the request, but he reached down below the bar and retrieved a large brass key, gripping it tightly. “One galleon for the week. And that’s not with meals. Pay upfront.”

Tom handed over the coin and accepted the key, climbing the rickety staircase that the man then indicated in the back corner. When he arrived in the room—also despicably filthy—he shut the door, flipped the lock, and slid to the floor in a heap.

“What have I just done,” he asked quietly, and let out a slightly hysterical laugh. “John, I’ve gone mad.”

_No, Tom. The world has gone mad. The Blitz is mad. Hitler’s mad._

He pulled up his knees and held them to his chest as he leaned back against the door. His breath was finally starting to even out, and he was now feeling the sweat that was making his tunic, now covered in soot, cling to him. He plucked at the damp fabric and held it away from his chest, feeling goose pimples rise on his skin as the air moved into the space.

“I don’t want to think about how I’m going to deal with Mrs Cole next summer after that farewell,” he said, not really even sure what he was saying. Everything was so surreal.

_Maybe she’ll forget?_

He let a bark of laughter that quickly died. Maybe she would, but if she did it wouldn’t be for any good reason; it would be because something worse had happened.

He lifted a hand and pushed his hair back from where it was pasted slick against his sweaty, dirty temples.

“Why? What purpose does the bombing serve? What does dropping bombs on people’s homes actually achieve?”

_I don’t know. I really don’t._

When he’d finished cooling off and felt a little more collected he spent a good half hour sending cleaning charms at everything he could see in the room, leaving it not really looking much better but at least giving him some peace of mind. He then sprawled out under the threadbare sheets and after a mumbled, “G’night, John,” he was fast asleep.

Monday was a confusing sort of day, as he’d managed to sleep all of Sunday and part of Sunday night, finally waking up in the early hours of Monday morning feeling disoriented, hungry, nauseated, and dizzy. He still had some odds and ends left over from his last food package so he snacked on those until he was feeling a bit more present, then cracked open some books to work through. He started in on some spellcasting as he was hidden away in a magical town, and besides, no threatening letters from the Ministry had arrived after he’d cleaned the room earlier.

On Tuesday an owl turned up shortly after dawn with a care package and the creature looked pathetic and exhausted, which Tom gathered it must have been if it had been searching for him in London. “Damn, I didn’t think to send a note. Can you wait for me to write something up really quickly?” he asked the owl, not really knowing if it could understand, but it waited regardless and flew off with his message a few minutes later.

Finally, on Thursday, he decided to wander about town and visit some of the shops to get a sense of what he’d be seeing on the designated Hogsmeade weekends. High Street was full of shops and the overall aesthetic was almost charming, though, as the voice had warned many of the prices that he spotted seemed to be in the Diagon Alley end of the range, rather than the second hand or Knockturn Alley end. Still, the village was serving him well as a place of refuge, though he was anxious about having no access to information about what was happening in muggle London.

On Saturday, the irritable barman knocked on his door and lingered in the corridor long enough to tell him that he would need to catch the Hogwarts Express in London, and to Floo there the next morning from the main room on the ground floor. That seemed completely nonsensical to Tom as he could even see the castle from some parts of the village, but that was that, he supposed.

Almost too soon, Sunday morning arrived, and after a last look around at the filthiest place he’d seen in magical Britain he stepped into green flames and emerged on Platform 9¾.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning:**
> 
> This chapter, along with many of the following chapters, contains non-graphic references to WWII. These references are based on factual records from the time, including dates, locations, events. I have not manufactured or exaggerated these events.
> 
> At no point will the references to the atrocities of WWII be graphic, however they may be difficult to read about.

Tom was the first of his group of friends to find a compartment, as usual, and was sitting comfortably in his school robes with all traces of soot removed—which had taken the better part of five minutes to do—when the door slid open to reveal Rhys.

“Tom!” he exclaimed, bounding in. “Oh, you’re in your school robes already. Been here long, then? How was your summer?”

He found his lips curling upward in an involuntary smile as the exuberant energy filled the small space. “I survived,” he said evenly. “Did you do anything interesting?”

“Oh yes! There was this big uproar at the beginning of August, it was fantastic. You see, our parents have been pestering Rhosyn to find a good match and she finally brought home a potential suitor this summer. And they were all pleased, because he was a Carrow but it turned out he was one of _those_ Carrows, so it started a bit of a to-do because he apparently knows my awful cousin who lives in Paris, and _then_. . . .”

Tom smiled, bemused, as Rhys rambled on about his family’s misadventures that summer. The other boy was just drawing breath to continue his story when the door slid open again and Alexius walked in, saying, “Merlin save us, I thought we’d heard the end of it after the last letter.”

“Alex! You can tell Tom, the whole thing didn’t stop until—”

“Yes, it’s true, the French Ministry needed to come and haul them all back across the Channel. Such an embarrassment,” the other boy drawled, not even needing to take a moment to catch up to what Rhys was talking about. “Tom, good to see you looking well.”

It was another several minutes until Tancred entered, looking as reserved as usual, then several more until Rayner arrived looking tense, and finally with a loud whistle the train was off, hurtling northward.

Tom kept an eye out the window as the train passed through London, eventually exiting the perimeter of the city and speeding by greener areas. He didn’t see signs of devastation, or ruin, as he had feared but he couldn’t help but look at the thick lines of smoke trails that were drawn across the sky.

_I think that the news this year will be . . . difficult. Just—be prepared for that._

Tom swallowed. After about half an hour of tracing those lines up above with his eyes he dragged his gaze away to focus on his friends.

“Thank you all, for the post this summer,” he said quietly, when it was clear that he wasn’t interrupting any conversation. “I really appreciate it.”

They all nodded like it was nothing, minimising any awkwardness. 

“So, you decided to visit Hogsmeade before school?” Tancred ventured.

“Ah, yes. Things in London were bad.” He assessed the sympathetic looks that his friends were sporting; did he want to elaborate, or would it just be a waste of time?

 _They may dismiss muggle affairs but they’ve shown that they care about you. And maybe you can make them see things in a different light?_ The voice made the suggestion in a careful, cautious sort of tone.

Tom gave a small nod, more to himself than anything, as he decided to trust in the voice’s advice. “I don’t know how much you’ve heard about the recent conflicts on the muggle side?”

He was pleasantly surprised when no one immediately scoffed. Rhys looked uncomfortable and was shooting looks over toward Alexius, who was frowning. Rayner’s expression hadn’t really changed from the tense one he’d arrived with.

Tancred though was prepared to speak. “I know that you’ve mentioned a few things, in more broad terms. Food being a challenge, for one. I take it things escalated this summer?”

Seeing the openness in his eyes, with the rest of his friends there as well, Tom steeled himself and explained what he could of the past two years’ events. The IRA bombings, then the declaration of war, then many children in London being evacuated to the countryside to keep them safe but not him, then the blackout, then the registration, then the rationing, then the EPA, then the air raids, then the air raid on _London_. . . .

He’d known it was a lot, and he’d felt that it was a lot, but until he talked about it _all_ he hadn’t realised just how much of ‘a lot’ it really was. And as he kept talking, and his friends’ eyes were all frozen wide open, he felt his anxiety mounting wondering if it was too late to just stop talking and take it all back.

But he felt that little tendril of warmth encouraging him, being there for him, so he powered through.

He didn’t say that he lived in an orphanage. Out of everything, he just _couldn’t._

Finally, as he finished, the compartment dropped into silence. It wasn’t the most comfortable silence; the air felt heavy. His gaze was now down in his lap—the eyes around him were just too much.

He heard a throat clear over where Tancred was sitting. “Tom,” he said in his soft voice. “Thank you for sharing all of that. I know that when you were first sorted it seemed like there were many rules that you had to follow, but I hope you didn’t feel like you couldn’t talk to us.”

He sounded . . . upset by the thought, which surprised Tom enough to make him look up at his friend.

“H-he’s right,” Rhys then piped up. Tom glanced over at him and saw that the boy looked very uncomfortable. “It’s not okay to go through difficult things alone. That’s why Slytherins stick together. We know what it’s like to face difficult things, and we do what it takes to get through them. So—so trust us to help you, since we trust you to help us.”

Those words were even weightier coming from him. Tom swallowed, the emotions in the tiny compartment starting to overwhelm him.

The warmth in the back of his mind held him, strengthened him.

“You’re getting your news from the Muggle Studies man, which is probably something you should continue as he would have the best access for that sort of thing. But is there anything we can get you this year? We can help keep you updated on wizarding news? We can ask our families for information? Anything you need.” The haughty tone that Alexius usually sported was . . . still present, but certainly diminished.

Rayner, the boy who was usually direct and only spoke when he seemed to have something insightful to say, added, “We’ll keep an ear out for you, and if there are any other possible threats headed your way we can handle them, trust us with that much.”

Moved by all the words Tom had to look down again. He nodded, and finally when he could clear his throat he said a hoarse, “Thank you.”

 _I_ really _like your friends,_ the voice said then, and Tom almost laughed in that moment. His mood lightened enough to let the compartment return to more jovial matters, he took a steadying breath and looked up.

“I wanted to ask, since it was completely dark out I couldn’t always tell who sent which packages. _Who_ was sending those dainty little tarts with all the fancy decorations?”

With that unpleasant but touching confrontation out of the way their conversation was smoother, but there remained a solemn undertone for the rest of the journey. When the trolley passed by the boys once again piled far too many sweets into his arms and refused to accept anything but thanks for an answer.

Tom kept finding his gaze drifting out of the window, and he spotted more areas in the countryside with visible smoke trails, though with only a general sense of geography and and an even vaguer sense of the speed of the train, he couldn’t say where they were situated. The train also didn’t seem to pass through any stations in any cities on the way to Hogsmeade, so any clues there were impossible.

As they pulled into Hogsmeade Station and all rose to disembark Tom noticed that he must have grown more than he’d realised, as he was now about an inch taller than Tancred, and several inches taller than Rhys. Alexius was stringier than ever though, now a good six inches taller than Tom and built like a beanpole.

They were quiet on the carriage ride up to the castle, and Tom noticed Rayner holding himself stiffly. He also observed Tancred watching the other boy with a shrewd expression.

This year’s sorting began with a song about helping others, and was quite succinct, though the line of first years was longer it had been either of the past two years. He settled in to listen to the names and make mental notes; it hadn’t really seemed to make much of an impact to his overall schooling the year prior, but he didn’t know what this year would bring.

Fairly early on Slytherin cheered particularly loudly when “Black, Orion,” ended up in their house, and Tom glanced up the table to see Lucretia grinning broadly. They still hadn’t stopped clapping when the next student, “Bulstrode, Hubert,” was also sorted into Slytherin, nor the next, “Burke, Agrippa.” Their table was starting to get some looks from other other houses. Finally, after “Carrow, Callista,” was also sorted into their house there was a break in the sequence and Tom shared some amused looks with his house mates.

“Good crop this year,” muttered Alexius, wearing a sort of pleased expression.

A dozen or so students later a “Fawley, Theia,” was called and she must have been their year’s Fawley’s sister, or at least a close cousin, as she had the same tiny frame, squinty eyes, and brown hair, and she too ended up in their house. The entire sorting took well over forty minutes, and at the end each house had gained more than fifteen new students. Hufflepuff and Gryffindor each had about twenty.

After the usual round of announcements and watching the food appear in platters on each table, conversations took off immediately around the Great Hall.

“So many students this year. Why do you think that is?” he asked, selecting items to add to his plate.

Alexius looked like he was considering the question, while Rayner was scanning the sea of faces and appeared to be counting, a frown scrunching up his eyebrows. Tancred had instead looked at Tom, then displayed a thoughtful expression on his face as he returned to his food.

Finally, Rayner figured out whatever he was searching for and muttered, “More mudbloods than usual.”

There was an immediate reaction from the voice; though it didn’t speak there was an almost volatile spike of disgust from its corner of Tom’s mind that made him twitch, startled. Rather than focus on that right then however he slid his gaze down the table, hoping someone else hadn’t heard those words.

 _She_ hadn’t, but apparently Buchanan had, and the girl had decided to repeat them to her friends. And then the hag looked up, a sneer making an otherwise human face look horrid.

“Mudbloods. So many more, every year. Just like vermin, except for some reason we allow them to _breed_ ,” she spat, her voice pitched high enough to carry across at least to the Ravenclaws, if not farther.

 _She is just so_ vile.

“It would be a mercy to cleanse our society of such baseness,” she was continuing, seemingly revelling in all the looks that were being shot her way. From his spot at the table Tom could see the first year Slytherins staring at her, all looking uncomfortable, confused, or some combination of both.

He gathered a sort of boldness that he didn’t know he possessed—perhaps it belonged to the voice—and cleared his throat, capturing her revolting attention.

“Araminta,” he called, a sweet smile on his face. “Perhaps you shouldn’t tease our newest house members with hints of the speech that you’ll share later in the common room. It would be too cruel to make them wait in anticipation for so long.”

He didn’t know what he was saying, only that her expression changed, first her nostrils flaring at his use of her given name, then morphing to a look of suspicion, then of curiosity. And then the cow shut up.

He dropped his smile as if it weighed a tonne and turned back to his dinner.

The voice was silent. In shock, perhaps, like his friends who were now all definitely staring at him.

“What was _that_ ,” Rhys finally hissed.

Tom hardened his chin and looked up. Noting that the girls had picked up some other conversation he replied quietly, “I’ve had enough of listening to her. And that is _not_ appropriate in the Great Hall of all places.”

He noticed another pair of eyes on him then and turned slightly toward the fourth years, catching Mulciber watching him. “Problem?” he asked, his jaw still stiff.

“Not at all.”

He wasn’t sure what to make of that, so he turned back to his friends. Alexius gave him a nod, and they all finished up their meals in silence.

Some time later they trailed one of the groups of older students as they descended to the dungeons and found comfortable seats once they’d entered the common room. The chair that Tom chose had a good view of the entrance, and he made sure to face that way while his friends turned toward him expectantly.

“I will not listen to her spout that vitriol for another five years. I won’t. She doesn’t even realise how it makes her look. Regardless of views on blood purity, the way she speaks is so tasteless and ignorant. And I won’t let her poison another year’s worth of new students, either.”

He noticed that his fingers were gripping into the arms of his chair and he relaxed them, feeling his joints creak.

Rayner was tense again, and in an unusual display he was the first to respond. “You understand what we discussed on the train, right? You have a lot to deal with this year. If you want us to handle her—”

Tom shook his head once, decisively, and saw the other boy cut himself off. “No, I need to do it. I’m evidently more upset by it than you all are, and that’s not a jab against you as I know you were all raised differently. But if I handle it, then others will also see that I should be taken seriously.”

Rayner was nodding, and Tancred had that funny smile. Alexius nodded then, and said, “Well, that certainly sounds like it’s all in order. Do let us know if you need anything, of course.”

Tom had no idea what he was going to do to affect things in the long term, other than perform some badly-practiced Legilimency on her and hope that the damage improved her personality, but he was feeling this odd burning confidence that he didn’t want to ignore.

Two of the boys pulled out a chess set and got started on a game while they waited for the rest of their house to arrive and for the meeting to commence.

Some ten minutes before nine Tom saw the girls enter the common room and he stood, capturing their attention. He tilted his head to the side in a beckoning gesture and stalked off to a quiet corner of the room, not even bothering to see if she was following, and as he settled in beside an ugly portrait he felt a flicker of inspiration.

“Riddle,” Meliflua sneered when she stepped up to him. “What’s your problem. I’ve left you alone like your protectors ordered me to. You had no right—”

“No, you’re incorrect. I had every right to protect the reputation of my house from the perils of uncivilised loud-mouthed boors.”

She gasped, outraged. “ _Boor?_ Who do you think you are? My parents are of good, pure breeding—”

“And somehow that missed the mark with you, as you have worse manners than muggles.” He relished the look of fury on her face. At least the expression made her look human. “The last thing I want is for all three of the other houses in this school to act against us purely because of who we are, if we are to earn a reputation for being as brash and shortsighted as you. And even worse than that would be if our futures are hampered by your shrieking like a common banshee.”

He thought that he might be going too far, but at this point she was apparently speechless.

“To that end, I am warning you this once.” He gave her a harsh look. “Don’t let me hear you, don’t let me even remember that you exist, because you won’t want me to notice you.”

As she opened her mouth to surely say something stupid he flicked his eyes toward the portrait and hissed to its occupant, _“Would you please hiss and spit at this one to frighten her? She’s no better than a small rat.”_

And as the painted serpent reared up and hissed spectacularly—all the while preening and telling Tom that he’d like very much for the lustre of his scales to be complimented, please—the colour left her face, and Tom gave her one final narrow look. “This is _my_ house.” And he turned his back on her to return to his chair.

Enough students had arrived in the common room by that time that none of their conversation could have possibly been heard by his friends, but they would have been able to see Tom’s and Meliflua’s faces from this angle and looking at their expressions now, they had been watching.

“Who _are_ you,” Rhys exhaled, eyes wide, just as the common room entrance slid open once more and Slughorn’s jovial laughter announced his presence.

Tom listened with only half his attention, briefly noting that a boy named Cuffe and a girl named Ellis were the new prefects, though he’d still be assigned to last year’s pair if he happened to need them for anything. Erbach, the fifth year prefect in his first year, had apparently been made Head Girl and he gave a mental shrug, as she’d seemed to do a fine job in her prefect post, as much as he saw of it anyhow.

Slughorn then shared some words about having an open office door if anyone needed to talk about the hardship of moving from France—apparently some of the new influx of students was from the Continent?—then finished off with some of his usual blathering. Once he’d gathered this year’s group of first years off to the side Tom turned back toward his friends.

Rhys was still staring at him, even while he was continuing his chess game against Rayner.

“I dealt with her. She’s been handled,” Tom said shortly.

“We’ll keep you apprised if she returns to her usual charming self,” Alexius said, though it sounded more like a question.

Tom grimaced, suddenly feeling tired. “Thank you. I—I think I’m going to go lie down, we have a long first week this year.”

That was only partially honest; yes, they’d have a very full week as it was already Sunday night, but mostly he wanted some privacy as the voice was practically buzzing with things to say.

Back in his room he started to unpack his trunk. “So,” he said, cautiously.

 _Rhys definitely thinks you’re an imposter,_ the voice said promptly. _What on earth got into you? Where did that come from?_

The voice didn’t sound upset; rather, there was an element of wonder in the tone. Tom’s mouth twisted into a wry smile. “I wasn’t lying. I’d had enough. She wasn’t overtly awful to me last year but she wasn’t exactly pleasant to anyone except herself, and you saw how the first years were looking at her. And there were so _many_ of them!”

_I wonder if the war had an impact. There must be some muggleborn families that keep their children at home instead of sending them off to Hogwarts. I wonder if those families were more willing to send them away this year hoping that they’d be safer? If that accounts for some of the students, and the ones who came over from France account for the rest. . . ._

Tom had already thought of that, at least in part, and was sure that Tancred had also caught onto that idea given the looks he was shooting Tom during dinner. “Yes, but also—people can be influenced to behave, and even think, in a certain way, right? Why can’t I try to help them think in a _better_ way? I’m not going to beat them over the head with the concept of equality, but if I can diminish the blatant disregard for the value of life then I’m not doing too poorly.”

He sat on his bed, kicking the lid of his trunk shut with a foot. “I think that rather than just trying to survive this year, I should actually try to do more. I keep thinking about how bad things are, and that I hope that one day I can change them, but ‘one day’ isn’t good enough. That’s the same type of excuse that everything else gets by on.”

There was warmth then, so much warmth, and he felt pride radiating from that spot in the base of his skull.

_You can change things, Tom. I know you can. And I know that your reasons right now are good, and that you can do so much good because people are starting to pay attention to you, and respect you. Just . . . promise me that you’ll continue to use that attention for good reasons?_

Tom opened his mouth immediately to snap back but something about the tone gave him pause. He shut his mouth, collecting his thoughts, and finally opened it again. “John, if you ever doubt my motives, my reasons, I want you to tell me. I trust you to tell me.”

As he was finally stripping off his school robes and tucking into bed he heard the voice respond, _I’ll tell you._

* * *

As usual Tom was the first to breakfast the following morning, and when he received his timetable he couldn’t help but groan. He was peripherally aware of some looks he was getting from a few of the first years who had arrived first thing, presumably before their tour started, but he just continued to read over the tiny boxes.

Filthy Herbology, followed by a horribly long climb to Divination up in the North Tower. Then an entire afternoon with his least favourite professor.

Scanning the rest of the timetable he noticed that Astronomy was in an earlier class block this year, so that should hopefully help with his sleep, as his timetable had much less free time than in prior years.

The first Herbology class seemed like an omen of things to come, as they dove right into the care of some particularly vicious fanged and clawed flowers that by Tom’s reckoning had no business existing, and Beery happily told them that things would be getting ‘more interesting’ as the year went on. Something about being halfway to their O.W.L.s.

Divination was held in a long, narrow classroom a few floors below the top of the tower, thankfully not at its peak, which occasioned some senseless grumbling from the voice that Tom didn’t have the occasion to ask about. Professor Visconti had the sort of face that looked like it belonged in Renaissance art, and a thick rolling Italian accent. He started the class by giving them an overview of all of the methods of Divination that they’d study with him until their O.W.L.s, then which would be reserved for their N.E.W.T. years.

Tom hadn’t realised there were just so many different methods and media that could be used to look into the future, and that one could be skilled—or gifted—in any number of them. The voice had also apparently not known any of that, despite the fact that the entity had taken the class. Even Tancred looked like this was new to him.

They spent the rest of that class going over the basics of tessomancy, and made some lovely messes with tea. Their homework assignment, interestingly, involved researching the differences in readings based on the type and origins of the tea leaves, and the design and shape of the cup.

At lunch they reconvened with their friends, who’d had a more relaxing morning after they’d finished in the greenhouses, but then they all made their way to Transfiguration together.

Tom had decided, as part of his plan to do this year differently, to act like Dumbledore was just another professor and that he had nothing against the man. Rather than ignore him and let himself be ignored, he decided to be the perfect student that many of his other teachers thought he was, and raise his hand to answer questions, and help the others when he finished his own casting. He wouldn’t let the old man get to him.

His patience was tested though. Of course it was.

When his friends had arrived in the classroom they’d arranged themselves in the seats that had become more or less normal last year, with the group of them together and Tom slightly to the side. He figured that was probably best—though he’d like to sit with his friends this afforded him the ease to offer help to the Gryffindors that they shared the class with, or really anyone in the room as he was more or less in the centre.

But then Meliflua made a whole affair of where she could sit, since she evidently wanted nothing to do with Tom and had to sit as far from him as possible. Her friends didn’t seem to fully understand so he gathered that she hadn’t explained what had happened, but Dumbledore chose that moment to arrive and obviously took in the rattled looks she was sending his way.

After giving Tom a stern look over the top of his spectacles Dumbledore started the lesson.

“This year we will be continuing our exploration of the vast field of Transfiguration, one of the only types of pure magic. No other type of magic can transform with the purity of the magic itself; all other disciplines contain the temptation of dark forces.”

Tom flicked a quick look over at the others, raising a brow in a silent question.

The voice was not so silent. _Is he for real?_

“You will hear frightening stories from your peers who have survived the recent encounters in France, and possibly other countries as the threat of Grindelwald spreads. But you must not turn to the same weapons as he uses, as that will only weaken you.”

He continued on for several long minutes and Tom couldn’t help but stare. The man didn’t seem to know his audience. Was he that concerned over the new first years and the stories they might spread about the things they had seen back home? Or was this something else?

As his thoughts threatened to skitter off on a tangent Dumbledore waved his wand and caused some lesson instructions to appear on the blackboards. After all of that they’d be transforming a teapot into a tortoise. For some reason.

The spell had been one of the rather advanced ones in the intermediate text so Tom hadn’t had a chance to practice it yet, but by halfway through their excruciatingly long lesson he’d produced a tortoise, or as near to a tortoise as he could recall from his last visit to the London Zoo. He vaguely wondered how the animals at the zoo were being handled with everything transpiring in London as he held a hand in the air, wanting to confirm with Dumbledore that he was done rather than allowing the man to ignore it.

“Ah yes, Mr Riddle, I can see that you have managed to complete the spell. You may leave early.”

“Actually, sir, I was thinking I could stay and start on the homework assignment. And I could help anyone who is having trouble, if they wanted,” he added, blithely ignoring the way Rhys was staring and mouthing ‘What?’ behind Dumbledore’s back.

He added an innocent little smile too.

The man actually had the gall to sigh. “Mr Riddle, please follow the directions you have been given and kindly stop disrupting the class.” And then he gave him a look of disappointment and returned to the front of the class.

Resolutely not letting the man get to him he gave a little shrug and collected his things, then walked toward the door. Feeling a bit cheeky he leaned down toward Dowling, a Gryffindor who was sitting at the back of the class, and quite audibly whispered, “Try doing more of a jabbing motion at the end,” before exiting the room.

 _What has gotten into you?_ the voice demanded. _You’re not thick. You were clearly needling him on purpose._

Tom shrugged, then sidestepped into a passage for some privacy. “Why not? It didn’t lose me any points. And no one who witnessed that could possibly fault me for my behaviour.”

_I know a teacher who would have called me arrogant if I’d done that. But you do have a point. Rhys will definitely think you’ve lost the plot._

Tom snorted softly, shaking his head. “If I really wanted to confuse him I’d return to the classroom at the bell and ask to speak with Dumbledore, to ask questions about his odd speech.”

The voice did laugh then, and with a spring in his step he emerged from the passage. He had some time before the bell would ring to get started on some of his assignments, so he set up partway down the Slytherin table in the Great Hall.

His friends didn’t come find him immediately at the bell so he continued working, though he closed his books as food started appearing on the table a half hour later. He was just pouring himself some juice when the seat across from him was taken. “ _Here_ you are. We looked all over for you. What got into you, anyway?”

Tom looked up with a small smirk, casually scanning his eyes around to see who all was present. Of his year only Rhys had arrived so far, though closer to the head table there were a few first and second years, and farther away there was a huddle of fifth years who’d been there before Tom had arrived. The head table was still empty and the other house tables held a few clusters of students.

“I doubt you looked ‘all over,’ or you would still have your class things with you. Did you volunteer to check the Great Hall after stopping by the dorm?” he teased, smiling as Rhys grumbled and started filling his plate.

“And what do you mean?” he continued. “I just offered to help. Clearly there were people having trouble completing the spell,” he finished in an innocent tone.

“‘How about a jabbing motion,’” the other boy intoned. “It worked, too. The idiot managed to change the shape of his, a good ten minutes before anyone else.”

“Maybe the rest of the idiots should have tried it as well,” he said, his smirk widening. Rhys rolled his eyes and chucked a bit of dinner roll at him.

By six o’clock the others had joined them in the Great Hall and he explained his new approach to Transfiguration class, though in vague enough terms in case anyone should be eavesdropping. When Rayner gave him a considering look he decided that was good enough for him.

Tuesday was about a hundred times better. The entire morning was Charms, and the subject was quickly becoming Tom’s favourite. He had learned to appreciate their utility, their diversity, and after Dumbledore’s preaching the day before he also appreciated them just to spite the man.

Their syllabus included some spells that he’d learned as part of Charms Club the year prior, but also included a great many charms that he could see being quite useful in a duel, rather than as a day-to-day convenience.

After lunch they settled in for a morbid lecture on witch-hunts, and as he took notes on the important points the voice mused, _I wonder just how old he is._

Tom lifted his head and looked at Binns, really looked. Then he twitched a shoulder in a minuscule shrug and wrote in tiny letters on the edge of the page, ‘ancient.’

Their first Ancient Runes class was all the way up on the sixth floor, a part of the school where Tom had only previously visited during his search for passages and secrets. Professor Tofty was a balding middle aged man who seemed quite enthused about the historical parts of the syllabus, and less energetic about the practical components. Tom was a bit concerned at first but then the man had begun their first lecture and his immediate thought was that even the history of tableware would be interesting if this man explained it.

The voice seemed similarly enraptured, and at one point commented, _If only they hired him when Binns died._

Tom had noticed that the voice had become more and more forthcoming with information, and felt a bit conflicted about it. On one hand the whispers of the future were interesting, if at times confusing, and gave him a sense of comfort that the entity trusted him enough to divulge these hints. On the other hand, Tom felt as though he was taking advantage of the entity, if the voice truly didn’t realise what it was unintentionally admitting at times.

Those thoughts carried him through until his free period the next morning, when he slipped away from Tancred while the others were in their Creatures class. 

“John?” He sensed the voice’s focus shift. “I didn’t want to draw attention to it, but have you realised that you’re . . . saying more now? About how things will change?”

There was silence, but it was a thoughtful one. _Yes and no. I’m trying to stop holding myself back as much. I’m not hesitating and second-guessing everything I say, but I’m still being careful about the big things. If that makes sense._

Tom thought about the various references, the assortment of odd questions, and supposed it did. “Then I guess nothing earth-shattering happens when Binns dies, for instance?” He chose that example as it was fairly self-evident; the man was probably just holding on due to his love of teaching, at this point.

_Right. Or if it does, then I don’t know about it, so it doesn’t matter anyway._

Potions began with a lecture on poisons which certainly, Tom mused, would have prompted some more _opinions_ from Dumbledore, and according to their syllabus the topic would comprise the majority of their first term. Slughorn was much more active than Tom had seen him in class before, regularly walking up and down the aisles between work stations, checking on cauldrons, and helping to avert any mishaps.

On Thursday Tom, Tancred, and Rayner had their first Arithmancy lesson. The classroom itself was along the corridor from their usual Charms classroom, and a tall Indian woman named Professor Aryabhata spoke in a no-nonsense voice about the intricacies of the calculations that they would be learning. She immediately set them some equations and challenged their solutions, and Tom found his mind racing just to keep up with her. When the class finally ended he looked over at the other two boys to find them looking equally energized, eyes bright.

Finally, that afternoon he had two free blocks and was able to sit down in his spot in the library.

Tancred had followed him there for the free time he had before his Muggle Studies class. He sat down across from Tom and gazed at him steadily from the other side of the table. “So, what’s this year’s first project?” he asked with a small smile.

Tom returned his smile with a grin and leaned back, taking a deep breath and enjoying the familiar smell of the space. Then he considered, of all of the ideas in his journal, which he should start with.

“I’ll probably dig up some school records again.” He saw an eyebrow lift. “From a decade ago, to, oh, forty years ago, we’ll say? I—” He lowered his voice suddenly, casting a quick look around. “I’d like to try to find my family.”

Tancred’s other eyebrow lifted to join the first. “Are you thinking you might be able to find someone to stay with?”

Tom pursed his lips and nodded. “Not that I don’t appreciate your offer, but. . . .” He trailed off, feeling a bit awkward, but the other boy just shook his head.

“I understand. I’d offer to help but you would probably spot references better than I could, from what you do know of them. Is there something else on your list that I could help you get started on while you focus on that?”

Tom considered. “I was thinking of putting more enchantments on my trunk based on what Tofty said about practical runes, but I think we’re still quite far off from trying anything.”

The other boy continued to look at him steadily. “Well? What type of enchantments? We might as well compile the information now.”

Tom blinked. Then he relayed his initial thoughts for his trunk, and, after a bit of hesitation, shared his more nebulous thoughts about his journal, and watched bemused as the other boy headed off into the stacks on a mission.

He spent the entire afternoon poring over old Hogwarts records, long after his friend had left for Muggle Studies. He was looking for anyone with the surname Riddle, whether their first name was Tom or not. And, he supposed, he was keeping an eye out for the name Marvolo, as it did sound strange like some magical families’ names did. A bit before the final bell of the day was due to ring he put the books away and left the library, not overly disappointed that he hadn’t found anything yet. He would find he was looking for.

He descended to the first floor and waited outside the Muggle Studies classroom, deciding he might as well see Professor Stalk when he knew that the teacher would be there, rather than try to catch him after meals. As the class let out and the students filled the corridor he slipped past them into the room.

“Hello, professor,” he greeted the man, suddenly nervous.

Stalk’s face tensed. “Good afternoon, Mr Riddle. I gather you’re here for the news?” Tom nodded, and was waved toward the cabinets along the wall.

It was short work to pull out the papers from the summer, and he read through them, trying to find more details about the bombing sites but they were vague, almost as if the reporters didn’t know what locations were hit.

 _Or they were censored,_ the voice pointed out.

He considered, at first thinking it was odd to hide information from the people who very well knew they’d been bombed, but then decided that if these attacks were happening at night there was every likelihood the British were trying to make it harder for the Germans to know if their attacks hit the correct targets. He pursed his lips as he continued to flip through.

Four days after the bombs fell on London there were more bombs dropped somewhere else, up in the North West, again not specified. And then a few days later, in the South East.

He made his duplicates, feeling tense, not knowing if it was his own tension or that of the voice.

On Friday as they were queuing outside the History classroom a few of the Ravenclaws sidled up to him and casually asked if their library discussions were back on this year, and while Tom’s friends who hadn’t been part of those meetings the previous year gave him curious looks he readily agreed and they established Wednesday after Herbology as their weekly session. He was curious who all would turn up this year, and if they would have any new members in their little study group.

Finally, when the week was almost over and the flyers of his year were most anxious for the weekend, the Slytherins and Gryffindors piled into their Defence class. Merrythought started out the class by telling them that they’d be spending the first term studying how to deal with ‘nuisance creatures,’ as they’d need to cover them for O.W.L.s anyhow and this would give the students some time to adjust to the increase in workload that they were facing that year. After going through the syllabus she led them all to another classroom down the hall, and when she opened the door he could see that the desks had been banished against the walls of the room, and there was a large trunk at the front where a teacher’s desk would normally be. And it was rattling.

_No._

Tom felt a piercing tension from the voice and what had looked like a benign rattling chest now filled him with trepidation.

_Oh no, I really hope it’s not a Boggart._

Tom swallowed, and his friends had evidently picked up on his worry as they were no longer looking on in confusion so much as concern. He didn’t know what his Boggart would appear as, but his fears over the past year or two would certainly provide the creature some ideas.

“Well, who in this class can tell us what a Boggart is?” Merrythought asked the group once everyone was in the room and the door was closed. “Macmillan?”

“It’s a creature that embodies our worst fear, and can’t be killed,” she replied.

“Good. And as they cannot be killed, destroyed, or otherwise permanently managed, everyone should be able to handle one if needed. Can anyone share what spell will repel a Boggart? Nott?”

“ _Riddikulus_ , with strong intent, and laughter.”

“Precisely. Now, as you should all recall from your summer work, you’ll need to be able to render it comical enough to laugh at, in order to be able to banish it for any length of time. As such, I have set up some protections to keep any laughter from its senses; it wouldn’t do us any good to banish it before the whole class has had a turn. Let’s have everyone practice the spell for a bit to make sure that you have a good grasp of it before we put you under pressure.”

They broke out into groups then, and Merrythought made stops at each one while they demonstrated, finally calling everyone to stop some ten minutes later.

“Good work. Now, I’ll be calling out the register and when your name is called, step up to the front here. Do not step past this line. If you are stuck and don’t manage a successful casting then stay behind after class and I’ll set up some additional sessions to get your practice in. Avery, you’ll be first.”

As Rayner stepped up to the front of the class the professor stepped off to the side and aimed a silent spell at the trunk, which burst open. When the creature emerged it took the form of a man that Tom vaguely recognised from the platform at King’s Cross, in a spitting rage, brandishing what looked like a letter that bore a large seal.

His friend’s face had whitened considerably but he cast the spell, the letter turned into a flock of birds, and the next student was called.

One by one the students had their turn, and while a few of them at the start had prompted some whispers among a few of the Gryffindors, before long the entirety of the class had grasped that it wouldn’t do to attempt to mock students about a fear, as their own was just as personal. Finally, Tom’s name was called and he stepped forward.

His own nervousness was amplified by that of the voice, but he clamped down on it and tasted blood as he managed to bite down on his lip when the Boggart shifted for him.

A portion of the stone floor shifted to a lawn, though there was a patch of looser earth in the middle, all grass removed. Lodged into the dirt was what looked like a ticket stub bearing the words ‘London Necropolis.’

Tom felt a chill sweep through him. He raised his wand with an arm that felt heavy, like solid ice, and cast. A flowering shrub sprouted in the loose soil. He rejoined the rest of the Slytherins, aware of the curious looks aimed his way.

Only Rhys remained and after he had his turn, Merrythought somehow returned the Boggart to the trunk and apparently feeling merciful, dismissed the rest of them early after informing them of their homework assignment. The students filed out of the room, more subdued than usual.

Tom begged off dinner, instead allowing his feet to take him up to the seventh floor and into the privacy of the Room, where he took a seat on a pile of cushions.

“John.” The voice that had been silent since Tom’s turn with the Boggart tensed slightly. “What is your Boggart?”

_It was a Dementor. I used to be really badly affected by them. They dredged up memories of . . . the night my parents died._

And there was such a strong surge of emotion at that, Tom felt his throat tighten in response.

_I don’t know if it would still be the same now. The fear that I would be scattered forever was pretty horrifying._

He nodded. Then they sat there in silence for the next immeasurable span of time.

Finally, Tom spoke, his soft voice loud in the still room. “When I was five one of the older girls at Wool’s was sick. They didn’t tell us what it was at the time, but I think it was consumption. We hardly saw her after she started getting sick. They locked her up in one of the rooms. But we could all hear her coughing every night.

“I found out later that they’d made plans to have her moved to a sanatorium, so that the rest of us wouldn’t get sick, but she died before that could happen.”

He could feel the guilt, and horror, building in that spot in the base of his skull, but he needed to finish explaining. He’d started, so he couldn’t stop.

“She was buried in a common grave. A pauper’s grave. That was before Martha’s time, but the woman, Agnes, watched us while Mrs Cole left with the body. She was taken out of the city on the London Necropolis Railway to a cemetery where she’d be put in the dirt, with no marker, and no one to ever know who she was.

“And I realise now that the other children didn’t really understand either. But the older ones shared stories about mass graves that some cemeteries have for the poor. Where dozens of bodies are just put in the ground together to be forgotten.”

He looked up at the false starry sky above, feeling cold. “I don’t want to die and have my life not matter. Have my _death_ not even matter,” he finished quietly.

They continued to sit there together in silence.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Doing research for this legitimately makes me feel like I’m going to cry.
> 
> **Warning:**
> 
> This chapter, along with many of the following chapters, contains non-graphic references to WWII. These references are based on factual records from the time, including dates, locations, events. I have not manufactured or exaggerated these events.
> 
> At no point will the references to the atrocities of WWII be graphic, however they may be difficult to read about.
> 
> A few of the war-related news stories in this chapter also refer to true events that impacted children.

In the end he decided not to sign up for the Duelling Club, reasoning that his list of projects was by this point long enough that he would be occupied near every hour anyway without adding another responsibility to his timetable. His friends had seemed rather surprised by the announcement.

“But you’d be so good at it!” Rhys exclaimed, appearing almost upset at the news.

He shrugged. “I certainly plan to join it in future, but I have plenty to keep me busy this year. Next year, perhaps.”

The boy mumbled something, then said, “I suppose I’ll check out the first meeting. See if it’s worth going,” and added his name to the list below where Rayner had added his. Then he turned abruptly, jogging off toward where some of his friends from the Quidditch team were lounging. “Nero! Are you going for Duelling again this year?”

Just as he was wondering whether his friends would mind if he slipped off to the library he felt a soft touch at his elbow and looked over to see Tancred looking at him inquiringly, his brow raised in a silent question. Tom gave him a small nod and they set off.

They were just settling into their usual spots with an array of books around them when Tom heard his friend clear his throat.

“I don’t mean to pry, but I wanted to ask if you’re okay. You seemed quite upset by your Boggart’s appearance yesterday.”

Tom immediately grimaced, but as he felt the reassuring warmth from the voice curl around him he looked up and met Tancred’s eyes. “I am, thank you. It just made me think about some unpleasant memories, and realise something about my future, I suppose.” Seeing the other boy’s expression of concern he had another thought. “Do you think the others in the class knew what it was?”

Tancred tilted his head and frowned. “A few mentioned later that they thought it might have been a grave, but I didn’t see a gravestone so I wasn’t sure if that was correct. I figured you’d share if you wanted to.”

He gave a small nod, having already decided that he was comfortable with his friend knowing some of the details. “It was. It was a common grave. For those who don’t have the family, or means, to assure a proper burial.”

He watched as several expressions flitted across Tancred’s face, the other boy clearly cycling through a multitude of thoughts, conclusions, deductions. Finally he pursed his lips. “I can see why that would trouble you, I think.”

Tom wasn’t sure if there would be any other questions forthcoming so he waited, relaxing into the warmth that was still emanating from the back of his mind, but after some more frowning his friend pulled a book over and flipped it open, ostensibly starting in on his work. He could see the expressions on his face still shifting though, as if he was wrestling with something.

Tom decided to give him his space, as his friend had done so many times for him, and pulled over his own tome. It was some twenty minutes later when the book across the table was gently closed, and he looked up again.

“I’m not sure if you noticed my Boggart?”

Tom frowned as he did recall it, and hadn’t understood it either at the time. “A ring?”

He nodded, tense. “That’s right. I’m sure you’ve heard the others slip up—well, Rhys, really—and start saying too much about the other parts of my family. And I know that you’ve noticed I haven’t been very _active_ in certain discussions with the Ravenclaws, though I’ve been present.”

Tom nodded, unsure where this was going.

Tancred was picking at a fraying bit of the book binding, a small outward sign of his discomfort. “The Lestrange family comes from France originally, though my line moved to Britain many generations ago. There have however been two primary lines that remained in France.

“One of those lines was ended the year I was born, when my cousin died due to Grindelwald. My thoughts about the man are a bit complicated,” he said, and from his angle Tom could just see the boy’s mouth twist.

“The other line ends with my cousin Nozéa. And it has come out this past year that her parents are unable to have any more children. They cannot bear a son.”

Tom frowned. Was the magical world so reliant on bloodlines, and inheritance, that—

“And so I am the last Lestrange who can hope to continue the family. It’s been made very clear to me that this is my purpose in life. And for reasons I am still realising and accepting, the idea is terrifying to me.”

All of the words were spoken in the same soft, even tone that Tom was used to hearing from Tancred and it was completely at odds with the words he was saying. After trying to think of what he was even supposed to _say_ to something like that, Tom finally asked, “Can anything else be done?”

Tancred looked up then, displaying a rueful smile. “No. I will have to marry an appropriately pure and connected woman, and produce no fewer than two sons.” Then he grinned, but it wasn’t a happy grin. It was a grin full of teeth, and edges. “Otherwise I’ll be made to do so.”

Tom sucked in a breath, then reached across the table to rest a hand on his friend’s arm. That was a different sort of horror, a different type of future without meaning, to have that foisted upon someone against their will. He pressed down on Tancred’s arm, then retracted his hand. “And they’ve told you this now? You’re thirteen!”

His grin twisted some more. “Such is the life of a pureblood. It could be worse,” he added, and Tom scoffed until he heard his next words. “They could make me marry Nozéa.”

And suddenly those words from the train last summer, the ones that seemed so nonsensical at the time, all came back to him and now they made sense, and were just awful.

After thinking about that for a bit Tom finally said, very quietly, “The more I learn about the world the more I’m disappointed by it.”

Tancred gave a hollow sort of laugh then, and gradually they turned to their studies.

The following few days passed slowly, almost as if Tom’s classes, his schoolwork, and the castle were trying to delay the inevitable. Ultimately however, time did pass, and that Thursday he once again made his way to the Muggle Studies classroom in time for the final afternoon bell to get his weekly news update. As the class let out he overheard some Hufflepuffs mentioning that the professor seemed ill, and when he entered the room he saw that the man looked particularly drawn.

“Mr Riddle,” Professor Stalk greeted wearily, sounding about eighty years old. “I’ll once again remind you that the news may be highly distressing. If you’d rather I summarise recent events I will certainly do so.”

Tom just stared, registering the dark meaning behind the words. Finally, with a sigh, the professor waved him toward the cabinet.

Tom took out the week’s worth of papers and sat down first before flipping through them, bracing himself.

> **_BIG AIR BATTLE_ **   
>  **_OVER LONDON_ **   
>  _—_   
>  _“REPRISAL” FOR ATTACKS_   
>  _ON BERLIN_   
>  _—_   
>  **_SIXTY-FIVE RAIDERS_ **   
>  **_SHOT DOWN_ **   
>  _—_   
>  _98 MINUTES OF FIERCE_   
>  _FIGHTING_   
>  _—_   
>  **_FIRES STARTED IN THE EAST END_ **

Tom put the paper down and shut his eyes. That was only the first paper. The first page of the first paper.

Finally, after a few minutes had passed, he opened his eyes again and brushed that paper aside to read the next.

> **_BLITZ BOMBING OF LONDON_ **   
>  **_GOES ON ALL NIGHT_ **

There was a tremor in his fingers. All night?

>   
>  **_BOMB’S HAVOC IN CROWDED_ **   
>  **_PUBLIC SHELTER_ **
> 
> **_Fell Down Ventilation Shaft_ **
> 
> _MOTHERS AND CHILDREN AMONG_   
>  _THE CASUALTIES_

Tom turned away violently then and hunched over clutching his knees, feeling ill. His breath was coming in gasps and he felt hot all over, and wasn’t sure if he was going to vomit or pass out.

He heard something off to the side then but wasn’t able to look. Moments later a glass of water was being pushed into his hands.

“It’s all right, Mr Riddle. Take your time. I’m just going to set these aside for now.”

Tom held the cool glass against his cheek, focusing on the smoothness of its surface and the chill of it on his burning skin. He breathed.

He heard a knock at the door but didn’t turn, didn’t look up, didn’t do anything but breathe. He heard the murmur of voices and then the door shut.

He didn’t know how much time had passed until he straightened in his seat, then took a shaky gulp of water, then another. He felt for the desk beside him, not turning to look at it, lest he catch sight of another headline. Finding the edge he slid the glass onto the surface with shaking hands then dropped his arms to grip the seat of his chair.

He felt the steady comforting warmth of the voice and it made his eyes prickle.

Finally, he was able to carefully turn back toward the front of the classroom.

He saw immediately that the papers had been gathered into stacks again and returned to their folders, their words hidden. A sickly sort of relief hovered somewhere in his chest. He also saw a small potions vial on the desk, noting that it contained a turquoise blue liquid.

He slid his eyes toward the teacher’s desk, where Professor Stalk was just looking up from some grading.

“That vial holds some Draught of Peace for you, should you feel you need it in order to sleep later tonight. It won’t erase your emotions, but it should dampen any anxieties enough to allow you some rest.”

“Thank you, sir,” Tom replied, his voice hoarse as if he’d been shouting.

“Would you like to return tomorrow after breakfast to review the rest, or would you prefer to hear a summary?”

Despite his earlier insistence to read the papers himself and not hide from their contents, he could feel the fear building within him immediately when given those options. And he could admit that it was his own fear, not just that of the voice. 

After actually considering the question for several minutes, he came to his answer. “Summarise, please, sir. At least for now,” he said quietly.

The man nodded, then clasped his hands on his desk, his face tense. “The first night of the bombings in London was Saturday. Since then the air raids have happened nightly. Some reports state that it is Germany’s retaliation for Britain attacking Berlin. Other reports state that Germany attacked London first.”

“But—but there were bombs dropped over other cities in Britain earlier this summer too,” he said, frowning, not understanding.

Stalk nodded. “That’s correct.”

Tom looked down. He tried to relax the fingers that were starting to get sore from gripping his chair so tightly.

“Crime has also surged in London, as people are looting the bomb sites, and using the cover of darkness and panic to commit various assaults.”

Tom’s face twisted reflexively, but he didn’t think the professor could see from this angle. Humans could be opportunistic, and savage. He’d learned that at a young age, living in Lambeth.

“And—” Tom looked up to see the professor rising and approaching, picking up the collection of papers to flip through them. He stopped at one and then continued. “There was also a bomb that struck Buckingham Palace.”

“What,” he exhaled, and his hand reached forward toward the papers as if it was attached to another body, one which wanted to see the carnage.

Stalk pursed his lips but allowed him to take the pages, and there he saw the words in stark black and white.

> _KING AND_   
>  _QUEEN IN_   
>  _PALACE,_   
>  _BOMBED_

His eyes scanned the first few lines of the article, seeing that the royals were unhurt, but it was just such a strange thing to even contemplate.

If even the reigning monarch, one who ruled half of the planet, was being bombed in his home, what hope did anyone else have?

The professor reclaimed the papers then, and asked, “Will you want your copies?”

Tom nodded slowly. “I think so, sir. In case I need to look back. I should have them.”

The man sighed, but then proceeded to quickly duplicate them and hand Tom his own stack. “Please consider the offer to summarise these events in future weeks, if only to save yourself some additional stress. And I don’t like to meddle where I’m not wanted, so if there is anything else I can assist you with I hope that you feel comfortable enough to let me know.”

Tom nodded again, and then stood, tucking the potion vial in a pocket. He felt exhausted all of a sudden.

“I’ll remember that, sir. Thank you.”

His feet carried him down to the dungeons, bypassing the Great Hall as even the smell of the food within made his stomach turn unpleasantly, and he soon found himself sitting on his bed, alone in his dormitory.

“John?” he said then, and to his ears it sounded like a sob.

_I’m here Tom._

* * *

Following the revelations of his muggle news update Tom immersed himself into his research for his family with an almost inhuman fervour, desperate to find some sort of escape from London.

He also, out of a sort of morbid curiosity, sought references to methods of . . . avoiding death. His experience with the Boggart still had him waking in a cold sweat every few nights, and the ‘blitz,’ as the newspapers were calling it, was always at the forefront of his mind.

His friends had made good on their promises from the train; one of them had clearly been speaking to others in the house as one of the cupboards in the common room had been cleared out and was now used to store the year’s issues of _The Daily Prophet_. Tom was touched when he discovered that, but none of his friends would admit to the act.

All in all it felt like he was running, never taking a moment to stop because he didn’t want to waste time, he _couldn’t_ waste time, not if that was what let him down in his search for solutions, when his first Slug Club invitation of the year arrived.

Tancred had also received one this year, which prompted a weary sigh from the boy.

It gave Tom a small idea, however, one which motivated him to select one of his sets of non-school robes and arrive at the evening gathering ready to chat amicably with Slughorn, the guests, his fellow students, whatever it took to keep his head of house in a good mood until the end of the night.

He could feel that the voice was curious, but it also wasn’t asking any questions. Perhaps it was worried about puncturing Tom’s newfound energy.

Finally, at the end of the long night, Tom asked for a few moments of Slughorn’s time.

“Of course, Tom, of course! Take a seat here, oh did you need another drink? Ah I see you still have some left in your glass. Now what can I help you with?” the man nattered on, patting his belly contentedly.

“Well, sir, I was meaning to thank you for all of your efforts to put together these wonderful events,” Tom started, and he _felt_ the voice give a startled snort at that. He let his lips curl into a small smile. “You seem to know so many people and have so many stories to tell, I was hoping you might answer a question of mine about Hogwarts.”

He could see that he wasn’t overdoing it; whether it was the quantity of alcohol the man had imbibed that night or purely his personality he seemed perfectly accepting of the flattery. “Well! I am always glad to have my efforts appreciated, you can be certain of that. And stories! I do have so many stories that I _could_ tell, yes. . . .” His eyes went unfocused for a moment, then he shook himself slightly. “Of course you’re after a particular story?”

“Ah, not a story, exactly. But I was wondering, with how wonderful Hogwarts is and the number of students who have studied here, have any students ever remained at the castle after the school session ended in June, rather than returning home? And lived here over the summer months?”

_Hmm. I’d been wondering where you were going with this. I wouldn’t have thought to slime myself up to ask that question, but if it gets you results. . . . Slytherin—any means necessary?_

Tom felt his lip twitch and clamped down hard on his expression.

“Such an intriguing question! And I can certainly understand the admiration that so many have for the castle, it is quite the marvel of ingenuity, I must say. Now, let’s see.” The man hummed and twirled his moustache, apparently lost in thought.

“Well a student who plans to continue their studies into a mastery who happens to be studying under a master in the employ of Hogwarts _could_ begin immediately upon completing their seventh year, _if_ the master should agree to a provisional introductory session contingent on their N.E.W.T. scores.”

“And in the case of a younger student, one who wasn’t graduating just yet? Sir?”

“Hmm. There was a summer I recall—it was after I had finished my own studies, but I hadn’t returned to teach quite yet, so this is not my own story so much as one that I acquired—there was a rather large magical accident in the Greenhouses, which necessitated an enormous amount of diligent work to clean up in time for the next school year. A handful of students who were quite proficient in the subject volunteered to stay on and help with the task—and earn some extra credit too, I’d imagine!”

Tom sighed to himself. “I see, thank you, sir.”

“Of course, Tom! Happy to help out a bright student such as yourself.”

At that point Slughorn happened to catch sight of the time and promptly shooed him out of the room, but Tom was grateful that he wouldn’t need to extricate himself from the situation.

On the walk back to the Slytherin common room, the voice spoke. _You were going to see about staying here over the summer?_

Tom glanced around, not spotting any portraits or witnesses, but still he only gave a small nod in response.

_I know this isn’t exactly a positive thought, or an encouraging one, but I doubt that man could make that happen, regardless of his connections. If he was on the Board of Governors,_ maybe, _but even then given the way he handled the registration last year I have no faith in him. Not with your wellbeing outside of a classroom setting._

Tom mulled that over, but couldn’t find fault with it. His lips pulling into a slight grimace he gave another nod.

_I suppose you should ask anyway. Go through the proper channels. But maybe if it’s getting close to the end of the year and you don’t have something set up, find a way to ask Dippet? Think again about staying with your friends? Tancred seems like a good sort. I’ve been impressed with him so far._

Still thinking, Tom gave a slow nod, then recognized the patch of wall that disguised the common room entrance. Muttering the password, he continued to think about his options. He had eight months to figure something out.

Near the end of September when he was meeting with Stalk for his weekly news update, after confirming that the nightly bombings were still continuing over London the professor shared another piece of news that made Tom feel all sorts of complicated emotions.

“I’m not sure how familiar the subject of this attack will be to you. Tell me, are you familiar with the Children’s Overseas Reception Board, the C.O.R.B.?” the professor asked.

Something about the acronym niggled at his memory but after thinking for half a minute he shook his head. “I don’t think so, sir.”

“I see. Well, after the initial wave of evacuations of children at the start of last year, there were talks of further measures to protect the young. When it was becoming more difficult to find safer locations in the countryside, and when those locations outside of the cities started to become targets of attacks themselves, another initiative was put into place.

“This board sought to send children away to overseas colonies, far away from the war, until such a time that it was deemed safe to return.”

Something from those overheard conversations during the summer surfaced in his mind. “Places like Canada?” he asked.

Stalk nodded. “Yes. And others to Australia, New Zealand, South Africa, and possibly some other countries too.”

Tom felt something twisting in his stomach, something angry, bitter, but before he could think about it too much he caught something heavy in the professor’s gaze.

“There was a envoy headed to Canada, and it was torpedoed by the Germans.”

Tom didn’t know what made him say it, but his mouth opened and asked, as he felt the dread in him surge, “What happened, sir.”

“Almost all of the children on board lost their lives. The program will be cancelled.”

He left the room in a daze sometime later, the newspaper copies in his hand, and he would read later that the ship’s name was the _SS City of Benares_ and that only 13 of the 90 children that were aboard survived.

Now, however, he dragged himself up to the Room, unable to look at those printed words.

“They were sending children out of the country,” he finally whispered, when he was able to somewhat gather his thoughts.

The voice was emanating misery. _I don’t even know what to say. It’s horrible. How could—Did it look like a warship? Did they just fire at anything that moved, hoping it was an enemy?_

Tom felt conflicted. “I feel . . . relieved, that Wool’s wasn’t considered, I don’t know, worthy enough? To be included in the C.O.R.B. list. That’s what they were talking about during the summer. Because I definitely wouldn’t have been able to return to Hogwarts, if I was sent that far away. And I don’t know what their schools are like, or if they’d have even known to find me. Is that horrible, that I’m glad that Wool’s wasn’t given that chance of escape?”

_What? Of course it isn’t! It’s just, what, survivor’s guilt I think? If Wool’s was on the list that could have been_ you _on that boat!_

“I’m also angry, though,” he continued. “Why wasn’t Wool’s on their list? Why weren’t we evacuated down to Surrey like Stockwell was?” He chucked a cushion away from him, where it bounced harmlessly off of the wall. “What’s going to happen to us?”

_I don’t know. I’m so sorry, and I don’t know._

His anger about the situation, his grief for those children that he didn’t know, his rising feeling of helplessness continued to push him to focus hard on his various research projects. He was so busy that he completely missed the first Hogsmeade weekend, only realising when Rhys and Alexius dropped into seats at his library table and dropping bags of their purchases at their feet.

“Have you corrupted Rayner too? Where’s he hiding, anyway,” Rhys asked as he seemed to be catching his breath, looking around at the surrounding area.

“Rayner? He’s not inside the books, if that’s where you’re looking for him,” Tom replied, confused.

Alexius shrugged. “We assumed he was spending some time with you. I thought he had planned to join us, but no matter,” he finished easily.

Tom frowned. He’d also recalled Rayner sounding fairly eager about the weekend retreat to the village. “No, I haven’t seen him. Was Tancred with you? I meant to join you but it completely slipped my mind that Hogsmeade was this weekend.”

Alexius flapped a lazy hand, waving away the matter while Rhys replied, “Tancred spent a bit of the morning with us but then left before lunch. Said he had some things to take care of.”

Tom's frown deepened. He hoped nothing was wrong.

As the other boys shared the details of their day Tom started to pack up his things so that he could return to the dungeons with them. When they all arrived back at the common room he saw Tancred sitting in one of the armchairs reading a book, though when they approached he caught Tom’s eye and tilted his head briefly in the direction of the dorms. Tom returned the gesture with a nod and left in that direction.

The voice felt curious, and slightly tense. And a bit suspicious.

Tom was only in their dormitory for a minute when the other boy entered and quickly shut the door. “Is there a way for you to ask the portraits to do favours for you? The serpent ones, I mean,” Tancred asked, with no preamble.

He frowned. “I’m not sure. I’ve only spoken to that one Rhys brought in here for the test in first year, and then when I threatened _her_. It couldn’t be anything too complex though, I don’t think. Snakes aren’t the most intelligent of creatures when it doesn’t involve immediately satisfying their desires of food, hunting, and heat.”

“You could probably frame this as a hunt then, if that would make convincing them easier.”

The feelings of tension and suspicion in the back of his mind were both mounting at this point. Tom raised an eyebrow. “What’s this about?”

Tancred started pacing, which was so unusual for him that Tom started to worry.

Finally, he sat down forcefully on his bed across the room and met Tom’s gaze. “Something’s going on with Rayner. I don’t know what, but I don’t like it.”

“What makes you say that?”

“He’s always disappearing. He’s anxious all the time. He’s secretive, and I know that we all keep things private, but he’s not saying anything.”

Tom furrowed his brow. “I’ll admit that I’ve noticed those things, but I figured that’s just how he was. He’s always off doing his own thing,” he pointed out.

“Yes, but not like this. Whatever it is, he doesn’t want us knowing about it, _and_ it’s bothering him enough that when I confronted him today he couldn’t even think of a response. No deflection, no lie, no request for me to mind my own business. He actually seemed rattled.”

“I could try explaining things to a few snake portraits. I don’t know how much help they’d be, since I’m not sure if they can even understand English to relay what he might say, but I’ll try.” Then Tom considered the things that he chose not to share with his friends. “Suppose he has a perfectly good reason for not sharing things with us?”

Tancred shrugged. “Treat it as we would any other discovered secret.”

Tom nodded. Keep the information safe, and use it as a weapon if necessary.

Over the span of the following week Tom met with several of the painted serpents around the school, already having a good sense of where they all were from his explorations the previous two years, when he’d been investing more of an effort into finding Salazar’s hidden secrets. He chose ones who preferred to dwell in frames that were in out-of-the-way locations, without other portraits present to bear witness to his activities. After much flattery, and copious explanations, he finally had three that were content to follow his dorm mate about the castle covertly.

Rayner also apparently hadn’t taken Tancred’s confrontation all that well, as he became even more sullen and reclusive in the following weeks.

Tom was content to let the portraits do their work; if they were completely unsuccessful they would report back to relay as much, but he would focus on his continuous search for knowledge.

As October drew to a close and the nightly bombings of London seemed to take a break, Tom wanted to feel cautiously optimistic. But instead he felt as though it was the calm before an even worse storm, and when the bombings continued, scattered across Britain but devastating nonetheless, he continued to collect his weekly updates with a sense of horrid inevitability.

Partway through November the papers reported an attack on Coventry that had turned the city into a fiery inferno, reducing a 14th century cathedral to a skeleton of a structure and a mountain of rubble and obliterating thousands of homes and hundreds of lives. That evening found Tom in the Room holding the papers in front of him, unable to look away.

“It’s not even that the photo—” He exhaled, angry. He shook the pages. “What type of message is this!?”

> _“It is time now for our deepest, most inspired anger_   
>  _Coventry cries: Bomb back and bomb hard”_
> 
> **_A VERY GALLANT CITY_ **

“What purpose does _any_ of this serve? Why are we killing each other? How does us killing them fix the problem of them killing us? It’s just escalating, in circles, and circles have no end. _Why!?_ ”

He felt close to tearing the paper to bits so he tossed it down toward the ground.

_And if you can trust the information that’s out there on Grindelwald, he apparently warned the magical world that this muggle war was coming, and that he proposes to rule over the muggles ‘for the greater good.’_

“That doesn’t make sense either!” Tom exclaimed.

_I know. I don’t know what the solution is, because you’d think it was obvious that killing each other doesn’t accomplish anything good, and accomplishes a lot of bad._

Tom clenched his jaw, his teeth creaking. “This isn’t a magic problem, or a muggle problem. It’s a fault of humanity, and our selfishness, and our pride, and our ignorance, and our fear, and. . . .” He exhaled hard. “It doesn’t matter. All of our faults. All the things that make us human. And the corruption of power. One man in power in Germany is making Europe topple. One wizard in—I don’t know, France? Is that where Grindelwald is these days? He’s causing enough damage to our already smaller population by inciting fear, and using terrorism to—I don’t even know! It makes no sense!”

He was breathing hard, but he felt like he had been running so long and so hard with all of his projects that he was finally coming to a crashing halt.

“For all that our magical society acts like we’re above the events of muggles, we’re not even doing anything about our own problems. It’s all a show. It’s like you said about the Minister—the one you had in your time, who was an idiot. It was all about sweeping things under the rug. We got a new Minister for Magic a year ago, with a campaign about doing something about Grindelwald because Fawley wasn’t, and what has he actually _done?_ ”

At that point he couldn’t even find more words to express his frustration, so he stood up, raised his wand, and allowed his anger to flow in a series of hexes and curses, which he flung toward the armchair near the far wall.

_Tom._

He continued flinging spells, the sound of wood splintering, fire crackling, a dull background to the blood pounding in his ears.

_Tom, please._

It was long moments before he was able to reign himself back in, using the voice as a guide, a lifeline. Finally, he took a deep breath and slumped to the ground on his pile of cushions.

The chair was no more than a pile of splinters and embers in front of a large burn mark on the stone wall.

They both sat in silence, the voice tense, almost feeling nervous, while Tom was more in shock at his outburst than anything. He felt drained.

“I’m sorry, John,” he finally said, his voice quiet.

_I know._

* * *

The session in the Room had helped to soothe Tom’s frayed nerves, in a strange way. He wasn’t exactly calm, especially not when news arrived of a string of particularly heavy air raids on central England a week later, but he didn’t feel like he was going to burn up in a fiery ball of rage with each passing day either.

He somehow made it through the rest of November.

On the first Monday of December his attention was drawn to the corner of the common room where a cluster of first years were gathered around the snake portrait, and causing a bit of a commotion. Curious, he wandered by and saw that they were laughing and pointing at it, while the creature was kicking up a big fuss, weaving around above its coil, hissing nonsensically. As it caught sight of Tom it abruptly stilled, then hissed at him.

_“Speaker! You returned! A hunter arrived with a message for you.”_

He nodded and finished approaching, smirking slightly as a few of the younger students seemed startled by his sudden appearance.

“Do you know what it’s doing?” one of the boys, Gibbon, asked. “It’s been acting like this all afternoon, isn’t that right,” he continued, elbowing the young Black boy next to him, who nodded eagerly.

Tom considered, then gave a mental shrug. He turned to the portrait. _“Did it pass along its report, or shall I meet it elsewhere?”_ He heard gasps surrounding him immediately.

_“It informed me that the prey met with a taller walker in the colours of darkness and blood. The taller walker treated the smaller one like the prey that it is.”_

Tom frowned as he attempted to decipher that. _“Was the smaller one hurt?”_

_“Not that the hunter could see, but the smaller one acted injured after the words of the taller one.”_

He pursed his lips. _“Thank you. When you next see the hunters, can you please relay that if they next see those two together, they are to get my attention in a frame and lead me to their location? As unobtrusively as they can, of course.”_

If a snake could sniff in affront, this one would have done so then. _“A true hunter knows how to maintain utmost stealth before striking.”_

Tom rolled his eyes. _“Good. Keep me informed, please.”_

He turned away from the painting and saw that he was surrounded by wide eyes and expressions of awe. Tancred had also arrived in the common room around that time and was a bit further away, eyeing their group in obvious amusement.

“He enjoys your attentions,” he lied to the group, then extricated himself to retreat to his dorm room with his friend. Once the door shut behind them he sat on his bed.

“He has something going on with a Gryffindor, I think. Possibly an upper year.”

“Anything else?”

Tom shook his head. “No. They really can’t understand that much. It sounded like the Gryffindor might have been cursing him? It said Rayner seemed hurt, and that it heard words.”

Tancred looked quite concerned by that. “I wonder how long this has been going on for. And if he’s being attacked by Gryffindors, why’s he heading off on his own?” He sounded bewildered.

“I’ve asked them to continue following him, and to come fetch me if they seem like they’re going to meet again. I’ll try to catch them at it, whatever it is.”

The other boy shot him a sharp look in alarm. “Don’t get yourself caught up in it.”

Tom rolled his eyes. “Of course not. I plan to listen in on them, not go barging in wand out. Especially not if it’s an unknown, and an upper year at that. _Especially_ not in Dumbledore’s house.”

Tancred nodded, appearing slightly relieved. “Don’t go turning into a Gryffindor.”

Tom sensed the voice snort at that, which he echoed out loud.

Tancred’s lips twitched then, and he added, “Thank you, for helping with this.”

The weekend brought their next Hogsmeade visit and Tom joined his friends this time, though Rayner was again mysteriously absent. Truthfully he’d looked rather pale and drawn at breakfast, and had snapped at a second year who had asked him to pass one of the preserves. 

It was a crisp day out, and departing quite early they crunched their way across frost-covered grass and down the road that led to the main gates. “Anything specific you want to do today?”

Tom glanced over to see Alexius looking at him. He shrugged, and replied, “Not particularly. Maybe see if there’s anything interesting at Tomes and Scrolls?”

Rhys groaned theatrically at that, so he jostled the shorter boy as they walked.

They spent part of the morning simply walking the length of High Street, though they did take some time to duck into Honeydukes before the village became too inundated with students. Alexius treated them all to a large slab of chocolate, and in the back of Tom’s mind the voice was sighing rather wistfully.

Once they’d finished their long walk they entered the musty bookshop and split off to investigate different sections.

The prices weren’t really any better than when he’d stopped by in that last week of the summer, though some of the selection in the used book display hidden away at the back of the shop had been changed out. He spent several minutes perusing the available stock, occasionally pulling a book out by the spine to flip through in curiosity. Finally he drew himself away, settling on a single title.

As he arrived at the register he was surprised to see Rhys there making a purchase. “Is it your turn to develop Ravenclaw tendencies?” he teased.

“Nope!” Rhys replied cheerfully, a grin stretching his face wide. “I’m getting this for you.”

Tom frowned, his mouth already opening to refuse the offer, but then he caught sight of the book that the clerk was wrapping up in brown paper and instead asked, “ _Statistical Quidditch?_ What?” He turned a quizzical look to his friend. 

“A boring book about boring numbers. That should get you interested in the sport!”

He laughed a little helplessly, shaking his head. “Thank you, I suppose. Though in punishment I’m going to make you read it.” He handed over his own selection, a small used workbook full of Runes exercises, along with a few knuts.

“Excellent. Then we can have conversations about interesting topics, like pass success percentages, assists, fouls. . . .”

Rhys continued in that vein until their walk took them by Dervish and Banges, and Tom found himself looking in the window. Before he had a chance to react otherwise his friends were helpfully shoving him through the door.

The items in the shop were certainly an eclectic mix, and Tom wasn’t exactly sure what he was looking at for the most part. There was a little workshop off to the side, with a sign affixed next to the door that seemed to list prices for various item repairs, and all around the main sales floor there were what he could only describe as magical gadgets.

While he was slowly taking his time walking around the room another small group of students entered, a charm making a quiet ‘ping’ sound within the shop, and soon Tom overheard the manager explaining a few of the sections on display. There were apparently items in one area that would help detect disguises and dark creatures, while there was another area with at least thirty different types of scopes sitting under a glass counter. As their group made their way over to one of the windows up at the front of the shop Tom was distracted by a large bin at the back that looked to be full of junk.

He spent quite some time carefully picking through the items, finding that they were all tagged with a tiny piece of parchment on a short string, some with a small notation of ‘ _irreparable_ ,’ others simply ‘ _unknown_.’

Near the bottom of the bin he found what looked to be half of a grey stone bowl, the cracked edge jagged. His eyes widened as he saw symbols engraved along the exterior. He hurriedly scanned along the surface, finding runes for sight, for protection, for memory.

_Is that . . . ?_

His fingers tightened on the object as he looked for its tag, and sure enough on the note were the markings, ‘ _irreparable -2s 9k_.’

As he returned toward the front of the shop he saw that his friends were now loitering near the doors, clearly done browsing, so he hurried over to the register and exchanged coins, studiously ignoring the curious look the clerk was giving him. In short order his purchases were all tucked away in his magical pocket and their group had returned to the street.

“Anyone fancy a quick lunch?” Tancred asked, and Tom noted that the sun was now overhead. “My treat.”

They then piled into the Three Broomsticks and Tom had his first butterbeer, feeling warmth filling him both from the heated beverage as well as from the joy radiating from the back of his mind.

Some time later they were back outside and after a few more bouts of browsing, more for the others than for Tom who had already spent more money than he’d planned to, they set about returning to the castle. He was pleasantly surprised by how much he’d enjoyed the outing, and was feeling a bit relaxed, like he’d managed to step away from the tension that was always present.

That week brought more news of bombings, the targets seeming to be constantly changing. Tom wasn’t sure if they were each strategic military targets or simply chosen to strike at morale, but if the latter he was sure it was an effective tactic. He distracted himself by poking at the exercises in his new Runes book, even going so far as to carve out of them out on his bedposts.

The other boys gave him curious looks as he sat there one evening, a sharp knife he’d obtained from the kitchens in one hand, chiseling away, while his other hand propped the book open on his bed. Sometime later that night he sat back and called out silly sentences, peeking through a crack in the curtains to watch for any reaction from the others. Finally he whipped the cloth aside.

“Anything?” he asked, not bothering to be more specific.

“Any what?” Rhys responded, his expression one of bewilderment.

Tom shot a fist up in the air and let himself fall back onto the blankets, feeling accomplished. He didn’t care if his dorm mates thought he’d gone a bit barmy.

_Well done. That’s a clever bit of magic._

He grinned, elated. One task marked off the ever-growing list.

That small success gave him a new burst of inspiration to start tackling what he was certain was the broken half of a Pensieve. He wasn’t going to necessarily try to fix it, or create a new one, but if he could understand how it was _supposed_ to work, then maybe he could make his own adapted memory vessel. Of a sort.

And that also helped to slightly loosen another knot of tension that he’d been carrying around. Simply the ability to share a few words, thoughts, with the voice at night when he was waiting for sleep to claim him did wonders for his emotional state.

The final week of classes before the winter break crawled by, as each of their professors seemed determined to load them up with so many assignments that they’d not even realise they were out of classes. Tom had checked in with the common room portrait a few times as he was anxious to hear news about Rayner, but whatever the boy was up to, his ‘hunters’ hadn’t seen fit to pass along a message.

Finally, as he was making his way down to the dungeons to drop off his things after the last Defence class of term he heard a faint hissing call, and made his excuses to drift off to an empty part of the corridor.

_“The prey and the other walker meet now. The area is in sunlight, where some flat-rooms show male walkers, but where most of the flat-rooms are soft, as though made of grass.”_

_“Thank you. Please return there and watch. I should arrive shortly.”_

He hurried off, back in the direction of the stairs to ascend to at least ground level, though likely he’d need to climb higher. As he walked he considered the different parts of the castle. There were portraits all over, but specifically those of wizards and not witches? Grass?

“Any thoughts?” he hissed quietly, not seeing anyone nearby but still being cautious.

_If they mean ‘flat-rooms’ to be portraits, then what would make a portrait soft?_

As Tom arrived at the entrance hall he considered perhaps tapestries, and thoughts still racing he continued to the first floor, taking care to step softly as he approached the specific corridor that had likely been described, one lined with countless tapestries of battles and landscapes, and many portraits of old men. Hearing voices he halted just before turning the corner.

“I can’t again. The last one was two weeks ago. If I write them again so soon it’ll be suspicious.” Tom couldn’t read anything in Rayner’s tone, except perhaps frustration.

“Then you’d better make it _un_ suspicious,” spoke a familiar male voice, one that Tom could immediately place from Charms Club. “Given what the alternative is.”

“Someone’s going to start asking questions. Weasley didn’t—”

“Septimus had different priorities. And now he’s gone, and you answer to me. Figure it out, Avery.”

Tom heard footsteps so he moved swiftly back the way he came and ducked into an alcove behind one of the tapestries, stilling his breathing. He waited there for another ten minutes or so, until he was sure there was no sound nearby, before returning to the dungeons. He didn’t want to chance anything being said in the Great Hall and could always grab food from the kitchens later.

He was the first to return to the dorms, especially since dinner had just started. 

_What do you think that was all about? You seemed to recognize the voice. Was it that bloke who couldn’t cast those O.W.L. level hexes?_

“Yes. It was definitely Alcott.” He tried to think of any other interactions he’d seen their group have with the boy but came up with nothing. “I don’t really know anything about him other than what we see in Charms Club, and all I know about Weasley is the whole panto affair.”

_Maybe the Black girls know more about what he might have been up to? Er, Weasley, I mean._

“Perhaps, though I’d rather not involve anyone we don’t need to.” He leaned against one of his bedposts, frowning. “I don’t have a good feeling about this.”

He passed the time waiting for Tancred to return working on another runic installation from his workbook, this one a rather simple and mild Feather-Light for his trunk to make it a little easier to carry around, though not making it weightless enough to draw unwanted attention. He was just testing out the weight when the dormitory door opened and the other boys all entered, Alexius immediately starting to pack while Rhys flopped onto his bed, groaning and holding his stomach. Rayner was doing . . . something nebulous on his side of the room.

Tom caught Tancred’s eye and then left the room, and then loitered near the common room entrance for the five minutes it took for his friend to slip away. Once he joined Tom they both left and walked in silence to the kitchens.

After sitting down and being brought a small meal Tom said quietly, “He’s involved in something with Alcott. Apparently Weasley used to be in charge of whatever it was but now that he’s graduated, Alcott seems to be running things. I’m not sure if Rayner seemed bothered because Alcott was pushing too hard, or because of the situation in its entirety. I got no details.”

“Alcott,” Tancred repeated, his brow furrowed as he thought hard, then shook his head. “I don’t know him.”

“Gryffindor, sixth year, has opinions about dark charms,” Tom listed, ticking the points off on his fingers.

The other boy sighed, leaning forward with his elbows propped on the table. “I can’t push Avery any more, he’s not talking. But he apparently missed a fairly important assignment for Creatures last week. Completely forgot to do it. That’s not like him, at all.”

Tom raised his eyebrows. While his dorm mate was certainly quiet, and had always been rather solitary, he was always on top of his schoolwork. He twisted his lips as he considered.

“Alcott stayed over the hols last year, and I think I remember seeing him the year before,” Tom said slowly, really not liking what he was about to say but feeling obligated to say it anyway. The voice seemed to sense that he wasn’t comfortable as it also tensed.

Tancred apparently picked up on it as well as his eyes immediately narrowed. “Don’t do anything dangerous.”

He pursed his lips. “If he stays over, this would be an opportunity to try to get more information when I’m not busy with classes, and there aren’t teachers in close proximity all day long. But I’d need your help.”

There was a long silence, the type that he’d become accustomed to with the voice, especially during the more unpleasant months. Finally, Tancred worked up the courage to say whatever he was struggling with.

“What do you need.”

“Remember back when I asked Alexius about things that could be invisible?”

* * *

The next morning the dormitory was full of activity, as Rhys had apparently not packed a single thing the night before and had needed to get not only Alexius to help him find his belongings but Tom and Tancred as well. As a result they arrived at the Great Hall only about ten minutes before breakfast was due to end and hurried through their meal, before heading outside to grab a carriage.

The ride up to the station was full of excited chatter about the plans for the holidays, at least on the part of the boys who were going home. Tom just smiled, happy for them, and hopeful that Tancred would be able to find something in his family’s home to help with their Rayner project.

As the carriage came to a stop and they all disembarked, Rhys and Alexius said their farewells and disappeared onto the train while Tancred lingered. Once they were out of sight he pulled something small from inside his pocket, then reversed the Shrinking Charm that had clearly been applied to it.

“This is for you,” he said, pressing a book into Tom’s hands. The leather cover was warm against his cold fingers. “Try to take some time off from your projects over the break. Enjoy some time for yourself.”

“Tancred, I—”

“No, it’s yours. I’ll see you in the new year.” With a quick press of a hand on Tom’s shoulder he was gone, on the train with the others, while Tom looked down.

There was no title on the cover, and on the spine there were a few unfamiliar symbols that didn’t look like the types of runes that they studied in class. He flipped it open to a random page and saw a drawing of a constellation, one he wasn’t at all familiar with. Underneath it was another symbol that he didn’t recognise, and in even tinier print, the words, ‘Bì — Wall.’ Below was a paragraph that seemed to describe the specific stars, positioning, and other details of the constellation, but so many of the words being used were unfamiliar, even after two and a half years of Astronomy classes. He flipped back to the start of the chapter and found a drawing of a tortoise entwined together with a snake, labelled simply, ‘Black Warrior.’

The tips of his fingers were starting to get quite cold so he shut the book and slipped it into his large pocket. He would have to dig into that later, from the beginning.

As the train pulled out of the station Tom turned away and started making his way back toward the castle, along the lake as he had the previous year.

_More gifts this year, that’s a good sign,_ the voice said, something friendly and at the same time teasing in its tone.

“I know,” Tom replied wonderingly.

_Books, at that._ The voice was definitely teasing there.

Tom huffed. “I’d think that you should enjoy the second chance at Hogwarts, in a more studious body, to make up for your lazy first attempt.”

The voice seemed to laugh at that. _Yes, it is quite nice. You doing all the work._

They continued to walk along the embankment, the water still as a mirror, reflecting the blue sky and white clouds above.

“Did you have plans of what you wanted to do, after Hogwarts?” Tom asked a few minutes later.

_Not really. I think I was mostly just hoping I’d survive. I almost died at the end of my first and my second year, and then I guess I did die in a way at the end of my third year. I wasn’t really planning for the long term,_ the voice said drily.

Tom’s brows rose at that. “Here? You almost died multiple times at Hogwarts?” He tried to consider what sorts of situations he’d gotten into in his classes and couldn’t think of a single life-threatening one. “Quidditch, you said earlier? Or were you involved in some things that weren’t exactly part of the curriculum?”

_Oh, er . . . . I suppose both actually, I wasn’t even thinking about the Quidditch accidents. In first year, I guess you could say a professor tried to kill me. And in second there was a deadly creature in the school? Things were more complicated than that, obviously, but that’s the gist of it._

A murderous teacher? Deadly creatures? Who was even _running_ the school in the future!?

Tom was about to ask something to that effect when he was distracted by a rather large ripple several yards out on the lake. He came to a stop, staring. Slowly, as if it was in a dream, a long, sinewy, _something_ rose up out of the water, at first looking like a vine, or a snake, or—

_What’s the matter?_ The voice sounded utterly nonchalant, as if Tom wasn’t just then staring at what could only be described as an eight foot tentacle lazily waving about above the water’s surface.

He backed up, leaving some more space between him and the lake, and then turned on his heel to walk more directly back to the castle.

When he returned to the common room he saw that a few upper years had stayed, but didn’t immediately catch sight of the Black cousins so he retrieved some books from his trunk and sat down at one of the round tables. He was just cracking open the new book from Tancred to figure out what exactly it was when someone slipped into one of the nearby seats and helped himself to browsing the titles of the other tomes on the table.

Tom looked up. “Mulciber,” he greeted.

“Riddle,” the older boy returned, giving him a nod. “Some advanced reading here. Thinking of starting up duelling?” he asked, waving the copy of _Curses and Countercurses_ that Tom still had.

Tom shrugged casually. “It wouldn’t hurt. I might join the club next year.”

“It’s good. Helps you be quick on your feet, and think creatively under pressure. You could always come watch this year’s Scrimmage, if you’re not sure.”

Tom wasn’t sure what he was referring to, but figured it was in line with the year-end competition in Charms Club. “How does that work?”

The other boy grinned. “A few of the professors set up a skirmish to demonstrate technique. I don’t think some of them even care so much about winning. It’s more interesting than the formal duels, but it should give you an idea of the skill you could get to if you work at it.” Then he shrugged. “Just a thought.”

Tom nodded, thinking that sounded like an interesting idea. “I think I might like to watch that. When do they hold the . . . Scrimmage?”

“Just before the Easter hols. Say, can you cast any of these?” Mulciber finally put the book on curses back down on the table.

“I can,” he replied slowly. “I haven’t had the opportunity to cast them on a person, but the spells appear and feel as they should.”

“Hmm. If you ever need someone to practice on, let me know. I’m sure we can work something out.” Then abruptly he stood and left after a short nod.

Tom blinked a few times, feeling a bit out of sorts. 

_Did he just volunteer himself to be your guinea pig?_ the voice asked incredulously. _I thought you lot were all about self-preservation?_

Not really sure what to think of that strange conversation, Tom shook himself slightly and then drew his mind back to what he’d originally intended when he sat down. He opened his new book.

He soon had an idea of what it contained, and it felt so precious, and personal. As he’d gathered after seeing the sketch of the constellation in his first glance it was an astronomy book, but the constellations themselves were those of another culture, and the combination of unfamiliar symbols in the image captions along with the publishing stamp indicating an origin of Hong Kong gave Tom a fairly good idea of the part of the world it was from.

The descriptions of the meanings of each constellation, the power behind them, and the possible futures that they told were also captivating, not only because of their newness to him, but also because of the thought that followed; if he travelled beyond Britain, beyond even Europe, what magics would he find?

Tom shut the book. He had holiday assignments to complete, and research to continue on his family, before he lost himself in something like this. Maybe he’d put it on his bedside table though, to read a bit before bed.

The rest of the weekend was spent working diligently, and he lingered at breakfast each morning hoping to receive the expected owl from Tancred. On Monday he learned of the most recent blitz attacks, these ones in the North West; it seemed that as the bombings continued any restraint the reporters had been showing over publishing specific locations had been lost, as he read of the devastation in Manchester, killing hundreds and setting the city ablaze.

He found himself in a solemn mood during much of that week. He was of course touched by his friends’ gift, which had been a fine set of self-inking, uncrushable quills in a lovely wooden case. At the Christmas panto Tom found himself sitting next to Reed, a Ravenclaw muggleborn student in his year who had been told to stay over during the hols as her family was worried about their safety; that put a dampener on his ability to even distract himself with that year’s production, which had fewer moments of failure than in prior years. He still had not received any update from Tancred, and every time he saw Alcott laughing at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall he felt himself tense, disliking the uncertainty that hung over the situation, and disliking even more his shrinking window of opportunity.

On Tuesday of the second week of the break, when the dawn arrived on the final day of the year, Tom ate his breakfast in silence, his anxiety pressing on him. He could feel a sense of inevitability, the same that he’d felt on a few other particularly unpleasant days over the past year, and kept darting his eyes toward the entrance as a result.

When Professor Stalk entered, the hem of his robes covered in soot as if he had just Flooed, Tom put his fork down as he took in the teacher’s ashen face. Their eyes met and the man hung his head slightly, then nodded, making his way to the antechamber instead of the head table, so Tom followed.

The heavy door shut loudly in the quiet room, a sense of finality to the sound.

“Would you like to hear the summary, or see the news?” he asked, the question now part of the ritual.

“The news, please, sir,” Tom said, then pursed his lips.

The briefcase opened, the paper came out.

Later, Tom would read about the fires. About the publishing houses, and book wholesalers, and bookshops, the millions of books that were forever lost. He would mourn the loss of knowledge, in addition to the loss of life, and the pain and suffering that London experienced that night. He would feel the shadow of self-pity in the times he would selfishly remember that the news had been published on his birthday, as if it was Fate punishing him specifically, for some unknown crime, taking away one of the things he held dearest.

For the moment, however, and many long moments that followed, Tom could only stare at the horror of the image on the front page, the dome of the cathedral just visible above an inferno of hell.

> _WAR’S GREATEST PICTURE: St Paul’s Stands_   
>  _Unharmed in the Midst of the Burning City_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Newspaper Headlines, in the order that they appeared:
> 
> 1\. The Observer (September 8, 1940).  
> 2\. Daily Express (September 9, 1940).  
> 3\. The Manchester Guardian (September 9, 1940).  
> 4\. Daily Mirror (September 13, 1940).  
> 5\. Daily Express (November 16, 1940).  
> 6\. Daily Mail (December 31, 1940).
> 
> The _SS City of Benares_ had 90 children on board and was bound for Canada when it was torpedoed by a German U-Boat, 600 miles from their destination, on September 17. News broke out in the UK on September 23.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning:**
> 
> This chapter, along with many of the following chapters, contains non-graphic references to WWII. These references are based on factual records from the time, including dates, locations, events. I have not manufactured or exaggerated these events.
> 
> At no point will the references to the atrocities of WWII be graphic, however they may be difficult to read about.

On the first of January, Tom hailed Dippet immediately after breakfast when the headmaster made to retreat, presumably to do whatever his job entailed, and he found himself led up to the ancient man’s office. When they’d both arrived, and were both seated, the man that Tom couldn’t recall ever having spoken to asked him what was troubling him.

“Headmaster, I wanted to inquire if there was any way to stay here, at Hogwarts, during the summer.” Tom tried to inject as much inflection as he could, and not sound toneless, but he was still emotionally exhausted after the previous day.

“It is certainly not typical, and has only happened a handful of times during my tenure. As there is no supervision outside of the school term, there is of course the need to evaluate all requests of the sort very seriously.”

Tom nodded, hoping he didn’t look too defeated all ready. “It’s just that I don’t feel safe at home, sir. I don’t live in a magical area, and the muggle war has already been dangerous, to a life-threatening degree, since it started.”

“I can certainly understand your concern, young man,” the headmaster replied with a solemn nod. “I will need to confer with the rest of my staff, and others that are involved with decisions of this magnitude. I cannot simply choose to make an exception, as there are countless ways that a decision such as this will ripple outward, and have other implications on not only those who work within the castle, but others also. I will however ensure that I have an answer to you before your exams in the summer. Possibly even before then, if I am able to arrange the necessary meetings as early as I would wish to.”

Tom hoped he wasn’t showing his disappointment outwardly. At least it wasn’t a flat refusal, he supposed. “Thank you, headmaster. And if you need me to clean, or reorganise cupboards, or anything, to earn my keep this summer I am perfectly happy to do so,” he hurried to add before he was dismissed.

“Now, now, I’m sure we’d find a way to keep you occupied if the request is approved. Is there anything else I can attempt to assist you with?”

He shook his head, and in short order was in the corridor outside of the office, retreating to the dungeons to sit in the solitude of the dormitory.

_I really hope he can make something happen. The way he was already almost warning you that it wouldn’t, though. . . ._

“I know,” Tom exhaled, while letting himself fall onto his bed. “And what supervision? It’s not like the teachers follow us around everywhere during the school year. Actually, other than at meals and in classes, it’s like they’re not even here.”

_I wonder if he needs to get approval from the Ministry. I know in my time the Board of Governors could be very involved, at times, and if there’s concern over student safety, being left to their own devices in the castle over the summer—I guess they wouldn’t want it to be on them if something happened to the student._

“I’m worried about him talking to the other teachers,” Tom added. “He said he’d discuss it with them too, and with Dumbledore—” His mouth twisted, then he sighed. “Hopefully the others can make up for him, since they all seem to like me. And it might win me favours that Stalk would support me, when I’m not even his student. I’m certain he would.”

_He has been very kind. I don’t even know who the Muggle Studies professor was in my time, and one of my best friends took the class. Then again she took every class._

“He certainly has shown empathy, and seems as horrified by what’s happening as any reasonable person should, rather than ignoring it like most of the people here.”

They sat in a thoughtful silence for a few minutes.

_What’s your backup plan this year?_

Tom sighed again, and shut his eyes. “Food from friends. Escape to Tancred’s if it gets bad.”

_If!? What do you mean if?_ the voice demanded, sounding exasperated. _It’s already bad! Why are you—_

Tom licked his lips nervously, worried about whatever the voice had wanted to say before it had cut itself off, but also almost _needing_ it to continue.

“John? Go on. Say it. Be honest with me. I need it.”

The voice continued at a calmer speed, and pitch, but the tone was still pure frustration. _I want to understand why you are being like this. London is very obviously a horrible place to be right now. Really, all of Britain is. So why are you being so resistant to actually getting help? You said—you said before, that you didn’t want to be alone. So why are you making it so damn hard to_ not _be?_

There was a pause, when the voice seemed to steel itself. Then, _Please explain it. I don’t understand._

Tom took a deep breath, held it, then slowly released it, his thoughts swirling. He tried to select ones that made sense, to try to explain.

“It’s mostly not wanting to—” Tom swallowed, hating the words “—not wanting to appear weak. If I have to ask for help, then that means that I can’t handle things myself. And I hate that.”

He reached toward his face and brushed back his fringe, leaving his fingers tangled in his hair as he searched for his next words. “When I was young I’d ask for help, and it always ended up coming back to hurt me. So I learned not to ask for help, and to figure out how to be self-sufficient. I learned how to have control, as much as I could in a place like Wool’s.”

He took another few breaths, trying to find a way to finish his point. “I can force myself to ask for help from people in authority here, because it’s their _job_. That’s what makes sense to me, anyhow. But asking a peer? Someone who could take that trust, that weakness, and use it? I—I don’t know that I can do that.” And he truly didn’t. The thought alone was terrifying. The thought of extending that hope and trust to Tancred and seeing the other boy laugh at him, tell everyone that Tom was weak, afraid of some muggles, taking Tom’s fears and tossing them on the ground and stepping on them—he just _couldn’t._

He knew it wasn’t rational, but that didn’t keep those thoughts away.

The voice was still quiet a few minutes later, and based on the flickers of emotion Tom was feeling from it, there was some serious thinking taking place.

Tom released his hair and returned his hand to the bed next to him, and asked, “John, how did you deal with your guardians? You said they weren’t good to you.”

_They weren’t,_ was the prompt reply. There was a hint of contempt in the tone, but so scarce that the voice could have been discussing the weather. _They hated me. Hated magic. Hated anything that wasn’t absolutely ‘normal.’_

“So they were muggles then,” Tom replied, another piece of the puzzle that was the entity sliding into place.

_Yes. They . . . were my aunt and uncle. And my cousin. I was their house-elf. I ate the scraps when they were finished eating. And—they weren’t exactly badly off. They could have fed me properly, they just chose not to. My uncle would occasionally smack me around a bit, but mostly he’d just yell. My cousin would smack me around as his favourite game, but . . . he ate a lot, so he couldn’t run as fast as I could._

Then there was a dry laugh. _You know, you’re not the first person to give me a new name. The one they gave me was ‘Freak.’ Or ‘Boy.’_

Tom swallowed. He had no clue what to say.

_I’ve never told anyone all of that before. I was always too scared to. I also thought that I’d be okay if I acted strong. And I think that if all of that hadn’t felt like it happened a lifetime ago, I probably still wouldn’t have said anything._

_I understand why it’s hard. But at the same time, if you get hurt because of the war, or—or—or go mad, or something, that’s worse. That’s much worse._

The voice sounded so distraught that Tom found himself opening his eyes. He still didn’t know what to say.

They sat there in another stretch of silence until Tom did have a new thought. “Hogsmeade. I’ll ask around on the next Hogsmeade weekend, and see if any of the shops take on additional help over the summer. Maybe I can work a bit, enough to cover a cheap room somewhere.”

He then swallowed. “And, I’ll . . . consider what you’ve said. I’ll think about asking Tancred. I promise, John.”

_Thank you, Tom._

The next morning an owl arrived with a package for Tom along with a letter from Tancred. After breakfast he tucked himself away in the privacy of the dorms.

> _Dear Tom,_
> 
> _My many apologies for taking so long to get this to you. After several days of searching I discovered it was not in storage, as it does not actually belong to us, but rather some friends of the family. After conversing with my father I was able to finally secure it. We can use it for the purpose of this task, but then we will need to return it, which I can fortunately take care of at Hogwarts._
> 
> _It is not in pristine condition as it is rather old, and from what I understand has been used on a few curse-breaking expeditions. You’ll note the frayed patches. They do not completely conceal as well as the rest of the cloak does so if there are any witnesses in the area, try to minimise their appearance by not moving. If you are still, they should be discreet enough._
> 
> _It is also rather sensitive to spell damage so if you must cast anything, try not to do so within close proximity of the cloak, as it apparently might disintegrate._
> 
> _I wish I could be there to help further, and to tell you to not be an idiot about this. But I think I know you well enough to know that you will be cautious, and you will plan your actions. Regardless, if things do go wrong don’t hesitate to get out of there and cover any trace._
> 
> _Best of luck, and I will see you soon._
> 
> _Tancred_

There was what appeared to be a somewhat threadbare curtain within the package. Tom handled it with careful hands as he removed the brown paper wrapping, noting what his friend had meant about fraying. Some parts near the hem were delicate enough that he thought he might stick a hand through it by accident. The pattern was gaudy, a mottled mix of green, brown, and yellow swirls that had probably once more resembled flowers.

_That’s . . . a lot uglier and worse for wear than mine was._

Tom quirked a brow; perhaps invisibility cloaks were a common enough thing. He stood and carefully placed the fabric over him, watching as he seemed to first shimmer then disappear. Then he walked about the room for several minutes, watching the spots where the cloak was very worn, and trying to recognise the indications of the magic struggling.

_Remind me again why this is the plan. I feel the need to say something about Gryffindors._

“I can’t exactly use Legilimency on him. I haven’t had anywhere near enough practice yet. And I don’t have any allies in that house.” He continued practicing his walking, trying to prevent those shimmers.

_Even I didn’t break into common rooms with my invisibility cloak._ The voice paused then, perhaps deciding whether to add a further thought, or possibly for dramatic effect given the next words. _We just used Polyjuice._

Tom stopped in his tracks. “What?”

_Maybe an invisibility cloak is actually less of a Gryffindor option, in retrospect. We didn’t learn anything useful, and one of us was turned into a cat-person._

Tom let out a startling snort-gasp then, shocked beyond words at the wild situations that the voice seemed to have encountered during its schooling. Gryffindors, indeed. “Any other strange tales you feel like sharing right now, or can I continue practicing,” he drawled.

_No, no, carry on. I’ll share the next one when you least expect it,_ the voice replied, mirth evident in its tone.

After spending the morning in his dorm he felt prepared enough to climb to the seventh floor during lunch, knowing that Alcott would be spending the afternoon on the Quidditch pitch as he’d done with his friends every afternoon thus far during the break. He ducked into the Room and donned the invisibility cloak there before exiting, and sat in wait near the portrait that he knew guarded the entrance to Gryffindor Tower.

Sure enough, shortly after lunch ended several Gryffindor boys turned into the corridor and entered their common room, and Tom watched as they all emerged some ten minutes later carrying brooms. Based on their number Tom knew that there were two other members of their house staying over the break, so he’d need to keep an eye out for them. He didn’t know for certain which year they were in.

A few minutes after Alcott and his friends were gone Tom stepped forward and whispered the password he’d overheard, ‘Fwooper,’ and smirked when the portrait’s guardian didn’t seem to care in the slightest that she couldn’t see the speaker. He clambered through the hole that it hid a moment later.

The room was very bright and warm, almost an intentional contrast to the darker and cooler dungeons that he was used to. Taking a few seconds to find his bearings he spotted two doors along one wall and assumed they led to the dormitories.

As he approached them and reached out the voice suddenly said, _The left one._

Exhaling silently, Tom gave a small nod in thanks and opened the left door, proceeding up the staircase beyond it. Seeing numbers engraved on a small plate on each door he continued to ascend until he reached on labeled with a ‘6,’ and after listening for any sounds from within, pushed through.

The dormitory was circular, and so, so red. Apparently there were seven Gryffindor boys in that year and he’d have seven trunks to rifle through, if he was able to access them, unless he was able to determine which belonged to Alcott.

Before trying anything, however, he removed the cloak then sent several security spells at the door, ones he’d applied to his trunk, wanting at least a little warning if anyone should return before he was finished.

Then he looked around. “ _Accio_ Alcott’s pillow,” he said quietly, then caught the item that sailed toward him from one of the beds to his right.

He was very careful then, moving slowly, methodically, as he cast the spells that he knew to detect any traps, any security, any curses on the trunk that was at the foot of the bed. He’d had a week and a half to prepare for this, after all, and as he ran through them all he found his estimation of the boy dropping even farther.

Finally, after the last one, he gave the trunk a look of contempt and whispered, “ _Alohamora._ ” The lock clicked.

Tom flicked it open with a charm, not touching it. He waited. No alarms sounded; no magic reacted in any way that he could perceive.

“So trusting,” he muttered to himself as he started to carefully search through its contents, taking note of where and how everything was placed, though it was more of a jumbled mess than anything.

After fifteen minutes he was convinced that the trunk didn’t contain anything incriminating, so he replaced everything as it was and shut it, flicking a basic _Colloportus_ at it with a huff of disappointment.

Then he glanced at the boy’s bedside table and raised a brow at the conspicuous box resting on it. A few spells later he flicked it open.

Within were bundles of letters, and immediately Tom recognized some addressed in Rayner’s hand. His fingers itched to grab them so he could read them immediately, but the anxiety that he could feel from the voice along with his own nervousness from being here for so long kept him acting rationally. He quickly set to work duplicating everything, then after a brief moment of deliberation, he replaced the originals in the box with his copies. He shut the box, donned the cloak, and got out of there after removing the spells he’d cast on the door.

He had just shut the door to the boys’ staircase down below when there was a noise near the common room entrance, and he saw a boy with the youthful face of an eleven year old but the size of a grown man enter, looking around in an almost exaggerated manner then making a shushing noise at a sack he was carrying, which was squirming.

Tom stared, then carefully moved to the side as the boy approached, then disappeared beyond the door to the boys’ dorms.

_Oh,_ the voice said unhelpfully.

Tom didn’t linger; he was out of the common room moments later, then in the Room, removing the cloak, then using passages to hasten his journey back down to the dungeons.

He took a few minutes to simply sit on his bed when he arrived, his heart racing.

_Well, that was exciting,_ the voice said drily. Tom huffed.

Finally, when he was feeling a bit calmer, he pulled the bundle out of his robes and set about reading them.

The voice interjected at a few points to make a sound of disgust, or grumble, but otherwise it kept quiet, as Tom’s frown became more and more pronounced. Finally he set the last letter aside.

“I don’t want to do anything with this just yet. I need to talk to Tancred, as he might know who these people are that Rayner was writing.” He flipped through the pages again, checking the names on them. “And I don’t know why these were even in Alcott’s room. None of these were written by him, or even _mention_ him.”

_Extortion? Blackmail?_

“Possibly,” he replied, his lips pursed. “I’m going to write him now so that he knows I’ve found something, though I don’t know what it is yet.”

He wrote something vague, intimating that he was possibly done with the loan but that he’d want to talk to Tancred when he returned to the castle, and sent the message off with a school owl. Then, as he couldn’t do anything further with the whole Rayner situation, he decided to go up to the library to continue on his search for his family.

* * *

By the time the break had ended Tom had gone through every school record he could think of for the previous eighty years and also checked every single item in the Trophy Hall, but didn’t come up with a single instance of the name ‘Riddle.’ Having also kept an eye out for any mentions of the name ‘Marvolo’ in those same searches he was forced to admit temporary defeat, and set that mission aside hoping for a burst of inspiration.

On the Sunday before classes would resume he departed on his customary walk up to the station, hands tucked into his pockets and scarf high around his face.

_You know you’re going to get some comments from Rhys, right?_

Tom shrugged. “I’m wearing the cloak. I’m not sure why he’d have anything else to say,” he replied, sounding unconvincing even to himself.

Sure enough, after the train had pulled into the station and the students had disembarked Rhys had been quite melodramatic about the cold, and called Tom some interesting names.

Rayner didn’t share a carriage with them on the way back up to the castle.

Tom’s friends told him stories about their time at home, sharing anecdotes about family members. When it was nearing the start of dinner Rhys and Alexius departed, while Tancred stayed behind in the dormitory.

Once they were alone, Tom pulled out the invisibility cloak and passed it over.

“You found something? Any trouble?” Tancred spoke quietly, his expression serious.

Tom nodded. “I don’t think we should go through them here, though, in case. . . .”

His friend clearly caught his meaning and soon they were leaving the common room. After considering his options Tom led his friend upstairs, through the entrance hall to the Grand Staircase, then all the way up to the seventh floor, ducking into the Room after a few passes of the corridor while thinking of a secure, and very private, sitting room.

Tancred was clearly curious about the place if the way his eyes darted about were any indication, but he took a seat and waited patiently.

Tom took the seat opposite and handed over the bundle of parchment.

“Those are the originals. I left copies, since I’m not sure exactly what we’re dealing with and I didn’t want Alcott to get suspicious at this point. They were in his dorm, unprotected as far as I could tell. No one spotted me.”

He waited while his friend read through each letter, watching as his eyes scanned the pages, and inspected the seals. Finally, after some twenty minutes, he looked up.

“Something is wrong. We’ll need to talk to Avery to get the details, but all of this will look very bad if it came to light, which I assume is what Alcott has on him.”

He took a few specific letters and held them out individually while he continued. “This one is requesting an invitation to the Malfoy Yule Ball, which is a big affair, and which Rayner was restricted from ever attending again after his mother heard about him sneaking off with the others our age to drink hundred-year old wine in the cellar. His mother wouldn’t let him attend again until he was of age.

“This one seems to have his father’s signature, but it’s definitely in Rayner’s hand.” Tom squinted and saw that it was different from the more jagged scrawl that ended his other letters.

“And here he’s asking about an item on reserve for him at Borgin and Burkes. That shop doesn’t place reserves unless they are _well_ compensated, or unless there’s a favour owed. And it would take quite a favour for whatever this is, that they corresponded about over a period of three months.

“These,” he said, holding the rest of the bundle, “indicate more of the same. Nothing explicitly stated, and if the reader didn’t know the people or situations involved then they wouldn’t just be ordinary post. They would be very bad in the wrong hands though.”

_Borgin and Burkes sells things like poisons, and objects cursed to murder muggles. I’d be suspicious just based on that alone._

Tom grimaced. “So we’ll talk to him then. Tonight. We should eat though, first. Maybe you can ask Alexius and Rhys to give us some privacy in our dorm after dinner?”

Tancred nodded in response, clearly understanding that Tom didn’t want to share the Room, especially not with an unknown entity like Rayner was turning out to be. They rose then, Tom tucking away the letters, and descended to the Great Hall.

His friend had somehow managed to get word to the other two, though Tom never knew how he did so, and some time later they were both in the dormitory with a very quiet Rayner. The moment the door shut behind them, Tom sent half a dozen spells at it.

“What’s going on, Rayner?” Tom asked, aiming for a neutral tone.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he replied stiltedly, giving him a flinty look.

“Let’s all sit,” Tom then said, stepping away from the door and watching as Tancred gently pushed the other boy toward his bed. Once they were all seated Rayner bore a scowl.

“Avery, we know you’re involved in something. We know that Alcott’s got something on you, and that he has you writing all sorts of people. If you don’t want to be involved in this, then this is your chance to let us help get you out.” Tancred was speaking in the most stern tone Tom had heard from him, all trace of his usual softness gone.

“I told you to keep out of it, Lestrange. But I see that you brought someone else in instead,” he said with a sneer, though his eyes were widened in what looked like alarm.

Tom narrowed his eyes. “All that talk at the start of the year of keeping people off my back, of helping me by handling my problems—you can’t even handle your own.” He knew the words were cold, but perhaps they’d shock the other boy into some semblance of sensibility. Sure enough, he heard a sharp intake of breath.

“We have your letters,” he continued, then waited to hear what Rayner would say.

The boy’s eyes were darting between the two of them, and his hands were clenched into fists at his sides. Finally, he blurted out, “You can’t have them! If—if he notices they’re missing he’ll ruin my family, and I’ll be disinherited!”

_What? Why should we even believe him at this point._

Tom was inclined to agree with the voice. Before he said anything further, Tancred was saying, “Explain what you mean.”

When he just shut his mouth and stared, looking trapped, Tom added, “Best make it a good explanation. Because we have no reason to believe you, after the lying you’ve been doing over the past few years, and you’d be better off with us on your side.” Outside of Rayner’s field of view Tom could see Tancred giving him an approving look, which helped to relax the knot in his stomach.

Rayner opened and closed his mouth a few times, clearly scrambling for words, then slumped forward. “Weasley started it in first year,” he finally said. “He heard from his family about some bills my father was supporting—and there’s nothing wrong with them, mind—and he figured out a way to get some favours from my family’s connections through me. In exchange, he wouldn’t spread around a more creative interpretation of the lobbying.”

Tancred’s lip was curled in disgust as their dorm mate continued.

“It wasn’t horrible. They were all small things, stupid things. Half the time I wondered if he was doing it just to see if I would go along with it, rather than because he actually wanted the things I was getting for him. And really, they were stupid. A new model of Remembrall, a casual compliment in a holiday letter to some cousins, that sort of thing. And it was just until he graduated.

“Then Alcott happened, and it was a combination of the lobbying, which he figured out a way to make sound even worse, and then the fact that I’d called in some favours that weren’t really mine for Weasley.”

There was about thirty seconds of silence in the room after that, then Tancred hissed, “You complete and utter imbecile.”

Rayner paled.

“You do something stupid that can put your family in jeopardy, and you ‘manage’ the problem by handing more leverage over to your enemy?” These words were also all said in a hiss, but Tancred was practically shaking in his quiet fury.

“Now, you’re going to sit here and think about what you can start doing to fix this, while I go find our friends. They deserve the courtesy of knowing that they have targets on them due to their misfortune of being associated with _you_.” Tancred gave Rayner an ugly sneer then, and stalked out of the room.

The dormitory was silent once more, but for the shaking breaths that he could hear from the other bed.

Tom thought about saying something, but Tancred had expressed everything so succinctly and in such a cutting way that it felt unnecessary. Instead he just sat there in the silence, watching the other boy steadily.

Ten minutes later there was a knock at the door, and Tom dismantled the spells that had been cast on it. When the group of boys entered Tancred looked his way, and Tom shook his head. The other boy’s mouth thinned as he shut the door.

“What’s this about, then?” Alexius asked, looking between Tom and Rayner, his expression quizzical.

“Rayner’s being blackmailed by Alcott, a mess that he mostly got himself into. And we’re going to help him out of it, because we don’t need that sort of liability in our house, and because his family doesn’t need the shame,” Tom said evenly. He left unsaid the added point that Rayner would then owe them all a fairly decent debt; that much was surely evident to everyone in the room.

Rhys dropped to his own bed, exhaling a loud burst of air.

Alexius, on the other hand, took that all in stride and clasped his hands together. “Well then, where shall we start?”

* * *

Ultimately, after a long night of planning, it was decided that Rayner would send off the next letter that was demanded of him, though with some modifications.

“Just make sure that you spend a bit of time fussing with the owl before sending it off, so that we have enough time for the Switching Spell,” Alexius was saying before they headed to breakfast, while Tancred checked over the letter for the fifth time.

_You’re all quite efficient when you work together. My friends and I had to work together to solve a few mysteries, and we succeeded, there was just much more bickering._

Tom’s lip twitched. 

He took a few extra moments in the common room as they made their way upstairs, chatting briefly with the snake painting and asking it to pass along instructions to the three ‘hunters,’ and Rhys was folding up his own letter as they were entering the Great Hall. There would be time enough to visit the owlery after breakfast.

At the Slytherin table Rayner was his usual tense, silent self, though that wasn’t necessarily an act given the unpleasant night he’d had. A covert glance across to the Gryffindor table revealed a puffed up Alcott looking quite pleased with himself, and smirking across at the Slytherin.

Rhys left first, with Alexius, to post his own letter. Some ten minutes later Tancred left the hall, alone, then five minutes after that Rayner left with a Gryffindor shadow. Tom took his time then strolled out to the lawn to head to Herbology.

Tancred met him along the way and just gave him a nod. Then he said vaguely, “I’ll need to return it soon, but I think I should hold onto it for another week, just in case we need a more direct message.”

Tom nodded in agreement. If the swapped letter didn’t cause Alcott to stand down, then they could certainly orchestrate another type of confrontation using the invisibility cloak.

“You mentioned it belongs to family friends?” he asked.

“That’s right. The Crouches. They have a daughter a year below us, in Ravenclaw.”

Well, Tom supposed it would be useful to have a family with connections who would share magical items like invisibility cloaks without asking questions.

Herbology was soon underway after which they parted ways, with Tom and Tancred climbing to their Divination class.

While the autumn term had focused on tessomancy and tarot as introductory tools, the winter term seemed to be more focused on learning the broad strokes of interpretation, as it applied to various forms of the discipline. Visconti then demonstrated interpretation of various liquids, smoke shapes, and dreams, focusing on different types of symbolism present across cultures.

Tom was then suddenly reminded of the astronomy book that Tancred had given him, and immediately paid closer attention.

Transfiguration that afternoon began with a long lecture about Animagi, which Tom thought he might like to work toward one today, and as he’d done prior to the break he was quick to offer up answers, smiling benignly as if he didn’t notice the suspicious looks Dumbledore was giving him. Part of his mind, however, was anxiously awaiting the next morning’s post.

Tuesday came and went with no updates on their plan, but Wednesday Rhys received a letter and after quickly reading it, looked up and said casually, “Mother says hello.”

They all shared a small secret smile and went about their day.

Later, when they were able to have some privacy in their dormitory, Rhys pulled out the letter again.

“She passed along some specific words in her Gobstones group on Monday evening, and the ladies jumped all over them. She expects something to be in _Witch Weekly_ , definitely, and possibly some editorials in the _Prophet_. And Stokke—” here he gave an exaggerated shudder, which interestingly Alexius mirrored “—was there this week so things should start to move with that legislation your father’s supporting,” he finished, glancing over at Rayner.

“Thank you,” the quiet boy said sullenly.

“Any issues with Alcott this week?” asked Tancred.

“No. Usually he leaves me alone for a week or so after I send a letter, before he starts on me again, so I should have until Monday at least.”

“I’ll check on the snake,” Tom said then, as the other updates seemed to be concluded.

The painting in the common room relayed that the tall walker seemed to be keeping to his usual habits, so it didn’t seem as if the boy was suspicious of any interference in his plans. He returned to the dorm to share the confirmation that things seemed to be progressing well.

“What if it’s not enough,” Rayner asked, sounding quite bitter.

“Then Tom scares him,” Rhys replied, then rolled his eyes when Tom just raised a brow. “What. You can figure out a way with the snakes to make him piss himself, I’m sure.”

Alexius scrunched up his nose and just said, “Rosier, _really_.”

On Thursday Tom decided to play around with his rune workbook, adapting a repeating structure to work—in theory—with _Geminio_ , and during his second free period of the day he managed to successfully apply it to his journal.

Another fist thrown into the air in victory, another project ticked off the list.

His good mood continued when he went to the Muggle Studies classroom at the end of the day and learned that there hadn’t been any new and significant developments since the horrible nightmare that had transpired on his birthday. That suited him quite well indeed.

Friday arrived, and with it a somewhat gruesome lecture in History about Herpo the Foul, and the impact of his obsession with the Dark Arts on many laws surrounding spell invention as a practice, along with his infamous creation of the first basilisk.

That afternoon they had their first Defence class of the term, and with it a somewhat gruesome lecture about the horrors of necromancy.

It was certainly an interesting end to the week, Tom mused, while Rhys was looking a little green by day’s conclusion.

On Saturday, when the post arrived, their group had their first sign that the main part of their plan had taken root, as Alcott opened a letter and suddenly stood, rather stupidly drawing attention to himself as he gasped at the contents of the missive then bolted from the hall.

Tom exchanged a look with Tancred and rolled his eyes.

Since he didn’t want to miss a potential update from his hunters he elected to work on his essays in the common room that day, and in the late morning he heard a faint hiss from the painted snake.

_“The tall prey is agitated, and looks like he smells of fear. He is nearby, but lost.”_

Curious. Tom looked over to Tancred and saw that the other boy had heard the hissing, and was looking at him expectantly.

“He’s in the dungeons. And afraid, apparently. I wonder if he’s looking for our common room?”

Tancred rested his chin in a hand, his brow furrowed. “We could send Rayner out there, and have one of us follow, unseen, to listen in?”

Tom nodded. “I’ll do it this time, since you took care of things in the owlery.”

They both retreated to the dormitory to fetch Rayner and transfer the cloak, and then Tom and his dorm mate slipped into the corridor. They were all the way down by the kitchens when they finally found the Gryffindor.

“You!” he exclaimed, looking furious. “What did you do!?”

Though Tom was carefully standing well away, he could see from his angle that Rayner’s face bore a dismissive expression, clearly betraying none of the anxiety that he knew the boy was feeling.

“I simply took care of a bothersome burden,” he said coolly. “I trust you won’t be needing my _assistance_ anymore?”

“That—you can’t—I can’t afford _this!_ ” Alcott flapped a letter in the air, and his face was red. “How does Borgin even know my name? How did he find out?”

“What’s it to me? If you’ve been indiscreet enough for him to identify you, then you have your own matters to take care of here. We’re done here,” Rayner said with a sneer, as he slowly started to turn.

Alcott then raised his wand, his arm shaking so much he was barely even aiming at the other boy. “I’ll make you pay. You can’t do this. I’ll tell them all—your father, he’ll be ruined, labelled a muggle-lover. And—and I’ll tell them about the forgeries, and—”

“My father,” Rayner drawled, “is about to be an acclaimed co-writer on a very successful bill on safety standards for brewing companies.” Then he tilted his head, as if he was thinking, and smirked. “And as for forgeries, my my, where to begin. You duplicated all of those letters that were sent, so nothing that was posted was written by my hand. And should you inspect your originals carefully, they may further surprise you. You have nothing of mine, except a piece of advice.”

He leaned forward conspiratorially, while Alcott foolishly lowered his wand, almost trustingly.

“You won’t want to keep Borgin waiting.”

Then he did turn to walk away, but not before deflecting a hex that Alcott fired in his general direction. Tom quietly followed, keeping an eye on the Gryffindor in case he should follow, but the boy only looked lost, as if he didn’t really understand what had happened.

Once back in the dormitory Tom returned the cloak to Tancred and Rayner threw himself at his bed, face pressed into his pillow, letting out a whimper of despair.

“So, how did the idiot take it?” Alexius asked.

“Rayner performed admirably, and if Alcott has any brains he’ll focus on the galleons that Borgin’s demanding for wasting his time.”

“Good,” said Rhys in a satisfied tone. “Ray, you owe us all a huge box of those little pastries your elf makes. Each week. Thank you.”

Later, once his Saturday clubs were concluded and Tom was tucked away behind his bed curtains, the voice finally spoke up.

_That plan seemed fairly well executed. I was expecting things to go horribly wrong._

Tom smiled wryly. “So was I. I didn’t realise a Gobstones club could be so efficient in pushing through Wizengamot legislation. Something seems wrong with that.”

_I’d much rather little old ladies run Britain than some Ministers, now that you mention it._

Tom snorted. “I suppose. I’m glad we didn’t have to fall back on the plan with the snakes though. The last thing I need is for Dumbledore to catch wind of snakes terrorising a student in his house.

He could sense the voice worrying over something. After a few minutes it spoke.

_I don’t know how I feel about Avery—Rayner. I know he’s your friend, but after all of that, can you trust him? I mean, there’s the whole affair with the blackmail that he allowed to escalate without asking for help, yes. But I’m more worried about just how_ well _he put on that false face for Alcott today. It was too good._

Tom chewed on his lip while he mulled that over. “I can understand that. He had a lot depending on that performance though. But yes, I hear what you’re saying, and I’ll be careful.”

_Thank you, Tom._

He smiled. “Good night, John.”

And that thing was back, niggling at a part of his brain, telling him he was forgetting something so insistently that he fell asleep that night with a frown.

* * *

Things became much less tense in their dormitory after that, though Tom did observe Tancred watching Rayner much more than he had been previously, sometimes subtly, sometimes quite obviously. The other boy gave no indication of noticing, however he was clearly making an effort to spend much more time with them. He even went so far as to join Tom and Tancred in the library at least once a week, something which hadn’t happened even once since they started speaking two years prior.

January churned along slowly, as winter months typically did. According to their syllabus the focus on defence against necromancy in its various forms would not end until March, and while not every lecture was equally gruesome, there was always at least one disturbing assignment each week.

In early February, after they’d finished a two week focus on Inferi, Tom was working on an essay about phylacteries when a stray thought caught his attention, causing him to reread the passage in one of his reference books. Then he sat back with a huff.

Near the beginning of the year, after news of the then-nightly bombs dropping on London, he’d briefly looked at some methods of protecting his body against death, but reading about the concept of a phylactery made him realise something new: he could research methods of protecting his _soul_.

He attacked his research for the essay with a new set of eyes, though he quickly learned this would be a horrible thing to attempt and would ultimately ruin him. If the text was to be believed, the soul would remain intact within its receptacle while the body, and mind, would continue to age, and wear away, until nothing but magic and malice drove it.

That would not do.

But it was an interesting window into a different branch of magic that he hadn’t considered.

With that in mind Tom stayed behind after his next Defence class and asked about additional reference material he could find about phylacteries, since he was so afraid of the Grindelwald war and wanted to defend himself as best as he could, of course, and what if the man had necromancers working for him?

Merrythought awarded him house points for his critical thinking and gave him a pass for the Restricted Section, with a suitably vague entry next to ‘Topic And/Or Title.’

The third week of February brought news of a string of blitz attacks over Wales, which shook Tom back into focus and he sought out Mulciber that same day, asking about his offer during the Christmas hols.

“The offer still stands, if you can offer something suitable in return,” was the casual reply.

Tom narrowed his eyes slightly. “What were you interested in?” he asked slowly.

“Oh, I enjoy lots of things,” Mulciber replied, leaning back in his chair.

He rolled his eyes in response, tired of playing this game. “Do you enjoy wasting my time, and yours? Because if so you’re certainly good at it,” he bit out.

The older boy smirked in response. “Fun. Well, how about this. We’ll set something up to play with the spells in your book, perhaps some other things that strike your fancy, and in return you include me on anything that you involve your snakes in.”

_Well he’s been observant._

Tom’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Fine. I’ll agree to that until the end of this year, with the possibility of renewing the agreement next year if it is agreeable to both of us.”

“Deal,” Mulciber said, shaking his hand. “Pleasure doing business,” he drawled.

They ended up setting their meetings for Sunday mornings, as that was the least likely time on weekends for Mulciber to be busy with Quidditch, and most other times during the week conflicted with clubs or classes. When Tom asked about having someone else there as well in case a countercurse didn’t work, the lazy response was simply, “Make sure it works, then.”

The boy was infuriating.

But as the weeks continued the practice certainly helped. He quickly learned that casting a curse on a person was vastly different to casting it on a wall, or a piece of furniture, as those objects didn’t scream in agony or bleed or lose their sight, or any other number of unpleasant effects that caused Tom to end their meeting early the first week.

And the second.

And also the third.

At least he seemed to be getting much more out of this arrangement than the other boy, though he dutifully brought Mulciber along whenever he asked the painted snake in the common room for an update from his hunters.

In March there were more bombings happening around Britain, with one of them somewhere in Scotland, which shook Tom more than he wanted to let on to his dorm mates. So when they bundled up to trudge down the muddy path to Hogsmeade Tom told his friends that he’d be busy with his own affairs in the morning, but that he’d meet them at the centre of town at noon.

He needed to find summer work.

The first few shops he stopped in at hadn’t seemed remotely interested in speaking to him about employment, and were completely dismissive in tone. He moved on from the bookshop and the post office to other stores along the High Street; Gladrags had seemed somewhat interested but then the manager took a good hard look at him and told him flatly no.

Frustrated, and disappointed, he then tried at the restaurants, entering first a tea shop, then the Three Broomsticks, but he didn’t get anywhere with them either. Finally, about twenty minutes before he was due to meet his friends he ducked into the Hog’s Head, trying not to cringe as the floor felt tacky under his shoes.

The barman looked up when he entered and narrowed his eyes in blatant suspicion.

“Good morning, sir. I was hoping to speak with someone about possible summer employment.” He tried for a neutral tone, but was pretty certain it was simply weary at this point.

“No work in town for a lad such as yourself, you can be sure of that,” the man grunted, then picked up a filthy rag and started wiping a tankard.

“Such as myself? What do you mean by that, sir?” He was hoping it wasn’t the blood thing. He was so tired of the blood thing.

“You’re too young. Get your O.W.L.s, or be an adult. Those are the rules.”

Tom blinked. But. . . .

“Look, kid. No one’s going to hire you until you’re older. The law’s the law. Now out, unless you’re buying.”

He exited of the grimy space in a daze. Not only did children not work in magical Britain, but they weren’t _allowed?_

He was still feeling a bit out of sorts once his friends caught up with him, and he was so distracted that when Rhys slapped a large chunk of paper-covered something—likely chocolate, knowing him—into his hands he reacted by whipping his wand out, startled.

His friends all stared at him.

“My apologies,” he said quickly, shaking his head a little and putting his wand away. “My thoughts were clearly elsewhere.”

He noticed Tancred giving him a concerned look, then the boy said, “I think I’m done in town, anyway. I’ll head back now. Anyone joining me?”

Tom very much didn’t believe that but was grateful for the company on his return to the castle anyhow. Though it did mean that he couldn’t respond to the voice’s grumbling, which it had started while they were still inside the Hog’s Head.

“Say, what do you suppose that is?” Tancred asked, gesturing toward the lake. Tom looked over and saw two tentacles breaking up some of the ice that had formed near the embankment, splashing water around.

“I’m not sure. It was there when I walked back from the station in December.”

The other boy was giving the lake some curious looks, and giving Tom even curiouser ones, until he quirked a brow.

“Only wondering if you’re feeling all right. You seemed quite out of sorts, back there.”

Tom bit his lip, considering how to respond, and finally said, “I’d been looking into another option for the summer. It didn’t work out.”

Tancred only nodded, and they made the rest of the way up to the castle in silence.

April arrived, and with it the Scrimmage event that Mulciber had told him about. He’d decided to attend, after the older boy had asked him again in that week’s cursing practice, and afterward he was satisfied that he had gone. While he could not respect the man for his infuriating personality, he could certainly respect Dumbledore’s power.

Each of their professors had brought their own style and flair to the skirmish, and while there were plenty of dark charms and protective magics flying about, the creativity and fluidity of the transfigurations that Dumbledore had cast were strangely inspiring. In one moment a river of fire would be hurtling toward him, and the next, the water that he summoned to extinguish it was frozen solid, then shattering into shards of glass, and then flying toward his opponent as a cloud of hundreds of hornets. Tom was trying to capture as many details as he could so that he could transcribe the sequences in his journal later.

After Dumbledore, Merrythought, and Smethwyck finished their battle they were followed by Beery, Slughorn, and Tofty, who put on an altogether different type of show. While the prior fight had been about reactions, and in-the-moment strategy, this one was about the tools and planning that were done _before_ a battle. Cases were brought out into their staging area containing all sorts of plants, vials, and rune-covered objects, and that skirmish had been quite enlightening.

As the event concluded and the students filtered out into the corridor, different groups chatting animatedly, Mulciber slid in beside him and bumped his shoulder. “So? Has the club gained another member for next year?”

Tom nodded without a hesitation. He had plenty to learn.

Finally the Easter hols arrived, though with it news of blitz attacks over Northern Ireland and the heaviest air raids yet on London. A few days into the break Tom had finished his assignments and was in his bed, his curtains drawn, wanting nothing more than some time to finally rest.

_It feels like you’ve been busier than ever this year. You seem . . . tense._

“I _am_ tense,” Tom replied, sounding weary. “I’ve accomplished some things that I feel pleased with, but each week I realise there is so much _more_ that I need to learn, and every day that goes by is another day gone before I will probably need to return to Wool’s.”

_Dippet might figure something out,_ the voice replied, but even it sounded doubtful.

Tom sighed. “Maybe.”

_You know you can take a break now and then, right? Take some time to process what’s going on? Digest all of that information you’re cramming into your skull?_

He snorted, then said drily, “You have such a way with words.”

_Hey!_ the voice exclaimed, the affront in the tone ruined by the feeling of mirth tickling his mind. _I’m just exhausted sometimes with how much you think. Think of poor me._

Tom rolled his eyes. “I do think of ‘poor you.’ For instance, I am thinking of how little you must have used your brain previously.”

_I’d like to be upset with you for that comment, but in some cases, you’re not wrong,_ the voice said in a wry tone.

“And now I’m thinking that I enjoy how self-aware you are when it comes to your shortcomings,” Tom continued, a teasing smirk twisting his lips.

_Oi!_

Tom enjoyed the amusement for a time, then sobered. “But going back to your initial comment, I don’t even feel like I have time to take a break. Several floors above me there is a library full of everything that I want to know. I just wish there was a faster way to learn all of it.”

_You . . . have time, Tom. You know that, right? You’ll have time to learn it all._

Tom wrestled with that thought for what must have been twenty, maybe thirty minutes. There was a sort of earnestness to the tone, but he didn’t want to let himself hope that the voice was assuring him of. . . .

“John,” he said with a sigh, then froze, a stray thought catching his attention.

_Hmm?_

“John of Gaunt,” Tom said, sensing that same feeling that had slipped by him several times already. “John of Gaunt,” he repeated, searching for it, reaching—

“Gaunt!” he exclaimed, sitting bolt upright. He was already reaching for the _Pure-Blood Directory_ , which Alexius had never reclaimed, making sure his curtains closed completely again after he grabbed it, and then he was rifling through its pages. “Crouch, Fawley, Flint . . . Gaunt!”

The curiosity that was pressing on his from the base of his skull was palpable, but he _had_ it, he finally caught the _something_ that had been hovering there all this time. “Descendants of the lost pureblood line of Peverell . . . possessing many bloodline gifts. . . .”

He looked up. “I need to dig up some of those old records. I’m fairly certain I read that the Peverells married into Slytherin’s line. And if they did, then—then—”

_You might have found part of your family._

* * *

On the Saturday at the end of the Easter break, Eliza Reed dropped out of Charms Club. When he met with his Ravenclaw group in the library the following Wednesday, he learned that her father had been called to military service, and he’d been killed in Eritrea.

He didn’t even know where that _was_.

He learned then that the muggle war was apparently underway in various parts of Africa, and that Japan was also involved in the war somehow. That all seemed far beyond the scope of his imagination, but with the sombre mood that had fallen over the third year Ravenclaws their library sessions slowly began to include some discussion of the ongoing muggle conflict.

Tom saw that Tancred held himself back from joining those discussions also, but he did note the concern in his eyes.

In May Tom decided to stay at the castle while his friends traipsed up to Hogsmeade for the final visit of the year. He wasn’t sure if it was residual irritation at the village for denying him the opportunity to stay there over the summer, or the recent news that cheese was now being rationed, or the continued news of air raids, one of which had damaged the House of Commons, but he decided to instead spend his time focusing on those old records that he’d dug through once before while learning about Slytherin.

Finally, at the end of May he found the confirmation he’d been looking for. The Slytherin family _had_ become the Gaunt family. And now he had a new mission.

The feeling of hope was quelled however when the most recent record of a Gaunt at Hogwarts was dated in the early part of the nineteenth century, over a hundred years ago. And then he realised that the exams were little more than a week away, and then a few weeks later he’d be either somewhere safe, or somewhere not.

Each morning Tom would glance up toward the head table, wondering when he’d receive an update from the headmaster. Or had the man forgotten?

The day before exams would start he received a small note at breakfast, and that afternoon he ascended to the seventh floor, his feet heavy, his stomach clenched. Too soon he found himself ascending those spiral steps and entering the headmaster’s office.

“Good afternoon Mr Riddle, please, take a seat,” Dippet said as the door closed behind him.

“Thank you for seeing me, headmaster,” Tom said, feeling hot and uncomfortable.

“I do apologise for taking so long to give you your answer, but a number of conversations needed to take place first. Now, I can’t recall; when we spoke previously did I mention there may be some concerns surrounding security?”

“You did say something about supervision, sir.”

“Ah, I see. No, I’m referring to Grindelwald, as his threat is at the forefront of our minds these days.”

Tom blinked; if it weren’t for the weekly conversations with the Ravenclaws he rather thought he’d have forgotten about the man entirely, given other more pressing matters.

But rather than admit to any of that he simply said, “Of course, sir.”

“So you understand that in order to keep everyone safe, it is clear that you must stay with your family. Outside of the school year they know best, and can ensure you are protected from the dangers of the current war. The Ministry, the Board of Governors, and even myself are of an accord on this matter. And while it is impressive how ardently many of your professors praise your work and your maturity, the safety of every child is paramount.”

Tom was reminded quite suddenly of his first night in Hogwarts, when the prefects had made their speeches, telling the first years that if they had an issue that Slughorn couldn’t solve, then they were better off writing their parents than bothering with Dippet.

He thought of mentioning that he didn’t have a family, that he lived in an orphanage, though surely the headmaster should know that, but he decided it wasn’t worth the effort. And despite the solemn smile that the man was now bestowing on him, Dippet’s mind was made up.

_So, your plans,_ the voice prompted as Tom was leaving the office hardly a minute later.

Tom pursed his lips as he silently passed through the corridors, ending up inside the Room a short time later. Once the door was shut he sent a few curses toward the chair that the Room kept creating for him, despite the fact that he had obliterated it many times, but it didn’t make him feel any better. He felt hollow.

“Ask my friends for food. Find things to sell.”

He felt pressure building in the base of his skull then, so he sighed, slumping down onto his pile of cushions. “Fine. I’ll talk to Tancred and see if his family is willing to put me up for a few weeks.”

_A few weeks?_ the voice asked, almost a dangerous tone laced through the three words.

Tom rubbed a hand over his face, his mouth twisting unpleasantly, the shame in his belly hot, and putrid. “I’ll talk to him. I promise.”

Later that day he caught his friend and made the request. The boy agreed without hesitation, sounding certain that it wouldn’t be an issue at all with his parents. Tom confirmed that he’d Floo over within the first week of summer break.

The exams passed swiftly, the ease of them at odds with everything else that was going on. After the Transfiguration exam, during which he was getting all sorts of suspicious looks from Dumbledore, two of the Gryffindors caught up with him and thanked Tom for his help that year, which quite startled him. He earned some good-natured teasing from his friends for that, which helped put a smile on his face.

After clothes rationing was instated he made his annual visit to the Room of _Things_ , gathering all of the cloaks, and trousers, and scarves, and other muggle-ish clothing items he could find, making use of his own cloak’s expanded pocket to store them all. He pocketed a few pieces of jewelry as well, just in case he could manage to pawn them, but he had a feeling selling off items of that nature would be more difficult, as he couldn’t imagine there were that many people interested in buying such things these days.

As the end of term approached Tom spent his remaining time applying additional runes to his trunk and his journal, trying to enhance the protections on them, and adapting his trunk at least to be shrinkable without using a spell, in case he needed to tuck it away in a pocket. When he was packing later he found that piece of Pensieve that he’d purchased earlier in the year, and decided he might spend some time inspecting it further over the summer.

Finally, the last morning of term had arrived, and as Tom and his friends were emerging from the dungeons a voice called out, chilling him.

“Mr Riddle, if you don’t mind I’d like to just have a quick work before you continue onto your summer break. Boys, the rest of you can carry on, Tom here will join you on the train.”

Tom shared a small frown with Alexius and Tancred while Rayner grabbed a glaring Rhys and physically hauled him away, but he turned and followed Dumbledore into a small classroom just down a corridor from the entrance hall.

“Mr Riddle,” the man said as his piercing blue eyes looked into his. “I wanted to take a moment to share a warning before you leave for the next few months.”

Baffled, Tom just said, “Sir?”

“It hasn’t escaped me the type of research you’ve been conducting,” he continued, and Tom still wasn’t sure where this was leading. He did a _lot_ of research. 

“Galatea—that’s Professor Merrythought to you—informed me of your keen interest in some disturbing topics. She assures me that you only have pure motives, of course, but still, I find it is within my responsibilities as a teacher to make sure you know the risks of such dark and evil magics.”

Ah, the soul magic. Perhaps he could understand Dumbledore; what phylacteries did to a person was _disgusting_.

“Now, I understand that the frustrations, the difficulties we see in our youth can seem insurmountable, but they are simply challenges that we must face, often head-on, and overcome. This is best done with the heart; it is when we seek to meet darkness with darkness that we ourselves fall.” And there was a certain _something_ in the tone of his voice, for a moment, but then it was gone and the man was giving him a patient look.

“Headmaster Dippet shared with the staff your fears about the summer, but I assured him that a loving home is the best protection one can have in order to face a brighter future. Tom, you must give up this interest in such dark magics, otherwise it will consume you.”

Tom’s jaw was clenched so hard he thought his teeth might crack. And Dumbledore was still giving him that awful knowing look.

“I hope you think about what we’ve discussed here today, Tom. Ah, you should probably run along now. We wouldn’t want you to miss the train.”

_Tom, breathe._

He should have known.

_Please, take a breath. And another._

He should have _known_.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning:**
> 
> This chapter, along with many of the following chapters, contains non-graphic references to WWII. These references are based on factual records from the time, including dates, locations, events. I have not manufactured or exaggerated these events.
> 
> At no point will the references to the atrocities of WWII be graphic, however they may be difficult to read about.

By the time Tom arrived on the train and found his friends’ compartment the voice had managed to talk him down from a thunderous fury. He was still holding himself stiffly though, and it took a good hour of the journey before he felt in control enough to let himself speak.

Tancred’s mouth and eyes were tight with concern that whole time.

Alexius was just slipping out of the compartment to go see a few of the other students before the summer when Tom felt a slight movement on the seat next to him, and a moment later Tancred’s shoulder lightly bumped his.

“All right?” he asked softly.

Tom nodded. “I will be. You heard back from your parents?” he asked quietly.

“Yes. They will actually be away settling some affairs in France for much of the summer, but they said it would be fine for you to stay. There will be a house-elf there, of course. They actually said that we could stay with them in France, but I’d really rather not be that close to things.”

Tom looked over and saw a small grimace on the other boy’s face. “Thank you. I don’t know how long I’ll be in London, but ideally not much more than a day or two.”

Tancred’s gaze slid past him, out the window. A minute later, not looking at him, he offered, “I could go with you, if you like. If it would help.”

Tom swallowed past the unpleasant taste in his mouth. He appreciated the gesture, but. . . . “I’ll be fine. Thanks, though.”

At some point during the journey Rayner appeared to fall asleep, and Rhys also slipped out of the compartment, presumably in search of chattier travel companions. The rest of the train ride passed quietly.

Once they’d arrived at King’s Cross Station Tom cast his usual convenience charms on his trunk, shared a subdued farewell with his friends, and pursed his lips as Tancred told him to be safe while holding a hand to his arm. Then he braced himself and walked through the barrier.

London was grey. Solemn. Grieving.

Tom found himself walking slower than in previous years, as he navigated the city streets, taking in the sights. Some buildings were mere carcasses, and others even less. It was strange, surreal almost, to see the buildings that still stood, sometimes immediately next to a now-empty lot.

As he walked southward he was distracted from the sight of the devastation by a horrid stench, so overwhelming that his eyes were burning, and he found himself bent over, leaning against a wall, retching. It smelled like the Thames on a hot, humid July day, after a sewer had burst, or possibly a hundred sewers.

Removing a sock from his trunk he held the cloth to his face, breathing through it, momentarily considering using his gas mask as it was probably toxic, what he was breathing in. And it only worsened as he approached the river.

And then as he crossed over the Thames he resolutely did _not_ look below, as that was most certainly not water.

When he was far enough away from the river to be able to think clearly he selected a few of the shops from the prior two years for his sales that he specifically recalled had been easier to deal with. One was no longer standing, but he was able to quietly move the clothing for a bit more coin that he thought he’d have managed had the ration list not been updated. Then again, he was certain the shopkeeper would be profiting quite handily from the illicit gains.

He was also able to move the bits of jewelry he’d acquired, and after over an hour of that business his coin purse was a good bit heavier.

When he arrived in Lambeth he had a hard time navigating the streets, as some were entirely destroyed, completely impassable. The sounds of the workhouses were loud, and no one played outside.

After a much longer journey through his borough than he’d anticipated he rounded a last corner and approached Wool’s. 

Part of the gate was folded in half as though it was made of paper, the wrought-iron clearly no match for whatever had crushed it. The courtyard was no longer flat, and instead had piles of stones in places and pits in others, though the building itself looked more or less intact.

He entered and saw a few young children playing some sort of game on the stairs, but he didn’t recognise any of them. A small boy spotted him and stared, a thumb in his mouth.

Tom turned to the side and knocked on Mrs Cole’s office door. After a few minutes of silence from within he determined she wasn’t within so he went upstairs, looked around, then went back to the ground floor.

“Where is everyone?” he asked the group.

“‘Round back,” the oldest boy of the group replied. “Digging for vic-tree.”

Tom blinked, shrugged, then stepped back outside to look for the rest of the residents. Sure enough he found them behind the orphanage, where it looked like the entire space between the building and the wall was filled with plants.

“Oh, Tom, you’ve returned!” Mrs Cole was bustling over, wiping her dirt-covered hands on an apron, and then touching his shoulders, and arms, as though to assure herself he was really there. He was struck by how much shorter she was. “I was so worried, you left so suddenly last summer—”

“I am here, but not for long. I’ve made . . . other arrangements this summer.”

She nodded, with a complicated sort of look on her face. “That’s for the best, I suppose. You still have a place here, of course, seeing as you only stay here two months out of the year, but all the better to avoid any extra attention, I should think.”

She was walking with him around to the front of the building, and he noticed as they walked that he didn’t see any of the other children near his age in the garden, and there were many new faces here as well. He frowned.

“Mrs Cole, where is everyone else? Amy, Billy, Dennis, I didn’t see them upstairs.”

He couldn’t see her face from this angle but he noticed her stiffen slightly. “They had to leave. Off to the workhouses, I’m afraid.”

Tom flinched. He held no love for the other children, his former tormentors, but to be doomed to that type of existence was— “Why? What happened?”

They’d arrived at the front doors then, and Mrs Cole was wringing her hands. “We needed the beds for the young ones. The girls that had been left at Southwark when most of them moved down to Surrey, we needed to move them here after their building was hit. And, I’m not sure if you’ve seen the reports, but—oh Tom, I’m so happy you’ve been so far away from here at your school.”

He swallowed past a lump in his throat. Looking out at the street, not meeting her gaze, he asked, “If I can’t make the same arrangement next summer as I’ve made for this one, will I be able to return here? I’ll still be at my school until I’m eighteen, but seeing as school is only compulsory until fourteen, and if the others have been sent off to the workhouses. . . .”

“Please try to make other arrangements, outside of the city, if that fancy school of yours can help you with that. If not though, we should be able to find some space for you as it’s only for two months.”

He was then shocked into looking back at her as she reached over to pat dust off of his clothes, then brushed some of his fringe out of his face, almost _mothering_ him, all the while with a stern and sad look on her face.

“There. Now you’d best be off, before I’ve a mind to put you to work in the garden, young man.”

He found himself giving her a soft smile, one that was made possible by the passage of time since he’d last felt her hostility, just as he was sure that her own tenderness was a result of the horrors she’d been made to survive these past few years. “Yes, Mrs Cole.”

And he turned, bracing himself once more for the stench of the Thames, and the destruction he’d pass on his way to the Leaky Cauldron.

* * *

If Tancred was surprised to see him so soon he didn’t show it. Instead he beckoned Tom through immediately when he firecalled to make sure that his friend was ready to receive him, and when he arrived a very wrinkly brown house-elf was there to take his things.

“I’m so glad you came,” Tancred said the moment the elf had popped out, and he had bright eyes and a smile wider than Tom had ever seen on him. Actually, he looked completely relaxed, which Tom realised he’d never seen until now.

“I took care of the things I needed to, and there really wasn’t any need for me to stay longer,” Tom replied, looking around.

He wasn’t sure what he’d imagined. Perhaps marble, and gold? A gothic castle with gargoyles and steep archways?

He found himself in a cavernous room, the fireplace a central fixture on a tall wall made of logs as wide as he was tall, and scattered around the room were comfortable-looking chairs and sofas, some with a blanket draped across an arm, others with cushions stacked at one end. Lush rugs covered the stone floor, tapestries decorated the walls, and he spotted a balcony above that wrapped around the space in a half circle, overlooking the coziness below and seemingly supported by artfully carved wooden pillars.

And the _window_.

One wall looked to be an entire panel of glass, overlooking a lake so blue it could have been the sky. And beyond that were mountains, bright green, rocky at their peaks.

When he dragged his eyes back over to Tancred he caught the boy giving him a warm, if amused, smile.

“If you need anything at all, call for Aitòre, he’ll be happy to help. Would you prefer to rest, or freshen up, or did you want the tour first?”

Tom couldn’t help but let his eyes slide back over to that view and his friend laughed, and said, “Come on, then. Let’s show you around.”

His friend led him to a small dining nook nestled in close to that window, then outside _through_ the glass to a pebble path that wrapped around the home, and also appeared to extend down toward the lake’s edge.

“Around that way is the stables—we have two mares if you want to go for a ride sometime.” Apparently reading something in Tom’s expression he added, “They’re both quite gentle. Past that is my mother’s workshop, but you’ll not want to go in there, and a little ways past that there’s a potions laboratory cut into the rock. Nothing special, but a serviceable setup.”

“What does your mother use her workshop for?” Tom asked, curious.

“She makes magical tapestries. Sometimes she takes commissions, but more often she weaves when her _muses_ speak to her, or so she says,” Tancred said with a shrug. “Anyhow, it’s a mess of yarn in there that is incomprehensible to anyone but her, so you won’t want to disturb anything.”

They proceeded down to the embankment, where he was told of the local wildlife as well as an area that was heated if he wished to go for a warm swim. Then they traipsed back up to the house—manor? Lodge?—where he was shown to his room on the first floor, and then led up to the top floor, where there was a library.

It was all warm brown woods and golden light filtering down from a canopy of skylights, and it smelled of books, and Tom could only smile.

“Well, I know it’s not the Hogwarts Library,” Tancred said after a minute of Tom simply looking at the room, sounding uncomfortable.

Tom shook his head. “This is wonderful. I—thank you, really.”

His friend gave him an awkward smile, then showed him to the different sections, explaining the arrangement of the books.

_I hate to be a pest, but . . . I told you so?_

Tom blithely ignored the voice’s teasing and enjoyed the day.

It took the better part of a week for Tom to settle into the rhythm of the Lestrange household, though it was only himself, Tancred, and the house-elf in residence. Meals were a curious mix of English along with what his friend told him was Occitan cuisine, given the area that his family and Aitòre’s had originated. The sounds were entirely different from the relative silence of the Slytherin dormitory and the city sounds of Wool’s; instead he was awoken by a variety of bird calls each morning, many of which he’d never heard before.

There was also less tranquility than he’d been expecting, strangely, as Tancred was so much less reserved at home. No, he was by no means a loud or boisterous boy, but he still went outside for a dip in the lake, or a leisurely ride on one of the horses, or even a simple walk at least once each day. And there was much more laughter than he displayed at Hogwarts.

Still though, they settled into a routine where they would rise with the sun and the birds, embark on some sort of activity outside—and weren’t Weather-Modifying Charms, which had been layered over quite a bit of the area between the house and the lake, just _lovely_ —and then settle in for some reading, summer work, projects, spellcasting practice, and similar endeavours for the remainder of the day. 

A week into this retreat Tom was startled to see a man that he didn’t recognize sitting at the breakfast table.

“Father!” Tancred exclaimed in surprise, evidently noticing the man when Tom had. “I didn’t know you’d be back so soon. Father, this is my friend, Tom Riddle. Tom, my father.”

“Thank you for extending your hospitality, sir,” Tom said, shaking the man’s hand.

“Oh, any friend of my son’s is most welcome. And I hear you are an impressive friend! Top marks, a favourite of your professors. . . . Why, if you and Tancred weren’t such fast friends I might warn you of your competition!”

The man had a kind smile, and there was plenty of love in his eyes when he looked at his son. Tom found a part of himself trying to reconcile this first impression with the father who had dictated the purpose of Tancred’s life so heartlessly, according to the explanation he’d told about his Boggart.

“Father,” the other boy was saying, looking distinctly embarrassed and avoiding Tom’s gaze.

“I apologise, son. Now, how about both of you sit down and tell me what you two have been up to so far.”

He seemed pleased when he learned that they had completed their summer work already, and laughed in apparent delight when he was told that they mostly spent the afternoons in the library. “Well, if that’s the case then I certainly won’t put a stop to your activities. In fact you’ll likely see me in there, once I take care of a few things. I do have a manuscript I want to resume my work on.”

Tom looked over at Tancred and saw him apparently wrestling with something. To give him some time to find his words he asked, “Manuscript, sir? Are you a writer?”

“Ah, not quite, no. Our family holds quite a collection of troubadour manuscripts, and I spend my time perusing them, looking for lost treasures of information. I fancy myself a researcher, though I suppose I am more a historian with a very specific focus.

And, evidently sensing no forthcoming resistance, he then went into a brief history of the travelling mages during the High Middle Ages, who performed lyrical magics in various courts across what was now mostly southern France, Italy, and Spain. Once Tom and the voice both were sufficiently enraptured he trailed off, saying with a wink, “But I don’t want to give away our family secrets!”

Tom huffed, though a small smile spread across his lips. Next to him, Tancred shifted slightly, evidently having come to some sort of decision.

“Will mother be returning as well?” he finally asked

Tom tried to contain his frown at the seemingly innocuous question, though the corner of his mouth may have twitched.

“No, I’m afraid not. In fact I will only be here for a period of two weeks, at most, before I am needed again in Paris. I will pass along your regards when I see her again, however.”

Tom could _feel_ Tancred’s tension release at those words, though the boy didn’t appear to react outwardly. Some time later they retreated and ventured outside, taking the horses on a slow walk along the edge of the lake.

They were a few hundred yards out when Tom ventured, “Anything I should be aware of with your parents?”

The other boy was quiet for a few minutes, though his face was shifting through a multitude of emotions. Finally, he responded, “My father could be a useful resource, if you need wisdom on particular books to read. And he’d be pleased to assist, even if you were looking for more questionable topics.”

Tom nodded, making a mental note of that. They continued onward, his friend still working through something.

“My mother can be trickier, if she chooses. She’s wonderful, and I love her, but her last few letters were hinting at something and I’m a little bit relieved that she’s spending the summer in France. I didn’t lie about them welcoming you here!” he hurried to add. “But at the same time when she’s not being direct she makes me nervous.”

Tom was surprised by that admission; Tancred had always seemed so adept at reading subtleties. Then again, to have to navigate those subtleties within one’s own family might be another matter entirely.

He was also curious about whatever it was that his mother had been hinting at, but his friend had given him so much space when he was being mysterious with his own secrets that he owed it to the boy to let him share if he wanted to, and to not push him.

Instead, as they continued their ambling pace along the water, the horses occasionally flicking their tails, he asked, “Do you suppose your father might be able to help with locating information about Pensieves?”

It turned out that he was able to help, not only with digging up information on Pensieves but also in locating a tome on advanced mental arts, which Tom set aside with plans to further develop his Legilimency that year. 

In the evenings before Tancred’s father departed they all sat on the deck watching green glow-worms flit about, drinking glasses of iced pastis—which certainly made Tom’s face twist in an unexpected way the first time he tried it, but it did grow on him—while the man told them stories of his days at Hogwarts, often at his own expense.

Things were relaxing. Things felt safe. Things were happy.

And that made Tom feel so guilty.

After Mr Lestrange departed for France, wishing them an enjoyable remainder of the summer Tom took a day for himself, obtaining a raft type of contraption from Aitòre and letting himself float out onto the lake. When he was sufficiently far from the edge and not terribly conspicuous, he spoke.

“John.”

_You feel like you’re miserable._

“I just feel so comfortable here. And I can see now why it’s so easy for them to ignore what’s happening out there.”

The voice seemed to take a moment to consider, the said, _But could you forget? Be honest. Are you capable of forgetting?_

Tom exhaled, and considered, pushing away the feeling of guilt for a moment and really thinking about it. “No, I suppose not. I’m too close to it, and it’s too close to me. It’s not fair for me to place all the blame on their easy lives. Is it the attitude? The _willingness_ to confront it? The old ‘ignorance is bliss’ proverb? Or is it also the fact that they haven’t _had_ to confront it, so they aren’t even aware of what they are ignoring?”

_I think . . . that it’s a combination of things. Yes, their lives are easier as a result of them having magic to make things easier. But that also makes it easier for psychos to create havoc, so I think that balances out._

_But I think the lack of information, of communication across boundaries, is what promotes that ignorance. As you say, they don’t know what they’re not aware of. Yes if they had the right attitude they could seek out that information, but just think about what you’ve had to do to get your hands on news. Is it fair to put that on the average student? Why is that information so hard to come by?_

_And then we fall into the blame game. We blame the_ Prophet _for publishing drivel instead of real news. They blame the Ministry for censorship. The Ministry blames the flavour of the week—muggles, muggleborns, purebloods, some celebrity-or-other—and the cycle continues. Everyone is so busy pointing the finger that no one actually needs to_ do _anything._

Tom had reached a hand out past the edge of the raft, allowing his fingers to trail through the water as the voice continued its rant. It clearly held some strong opinions on the matter, and given its vehemence Tom gathered that this was a problem that would continue into the future.

“So someone needs to break the cycle. How, though. At what point must someone step in. Does someone gain control over the papers? Take over the Ministry? Exert influence through fame, and power? Which spoke of the wheel is the one that must be snapped?”

The voice dropped into a tense silence. Tom waited, and as it continued to remain quiet he frowned. Had something he’d said alarmed it somehow?

“John? Are you okay?”

There was a shifting sensation, then the voice said stiltedly, _You just reminded me of . . . some unpleasant thoughts, that’s all. But to answer your question, sort of, I don’t think that assuming total control is a particularly good way to go about change._

Tom’s frown deepened as he sat there, bemused. “Well of course not. And that’s my point. The ignorance is so ingrained that _that_ is what it would take. Which is why this is such a mess.”

There was another uncomfortable silence, then the voice let out what sounded and felt like forced laughter. _Oh, I thought you were saying you planned to make that change by becoming a dictator. I guess I misunderstood._

Tom withdrew his hand from the water and dried it off on his leg, feeling unsettled. Something had clearly happened, and he didn’t want to overthink it since overthinking miscommunication always led to complicated melodrama, as he had witnessed often enough living with so many children at Wool’s. So instead he sat there for a minute making sure he didn’t speak too hastily.

Finally, he asked slowly, “Would you like to say what you mean? I’m feeling a bit insulted.”

After much more shifting happening in the back of his mind the voice spoke, sounding like it was choosing its words carefully. _I lived through the same ignorance, though we didn’t have this type of muggle war going on at the time. And I suppose the most recent wizarding war was also over, or in a hiatus, or something. But the person who started that wizarding war was someone who wanted to be that dictator, and rule over Britain._

Tom swallowed, trying to imagine that. “I apologise for dragging up those bad memories,” he offered, then bit his lip. “I’m not trying to excuse that, but I didn’t know.” He wanted to say that it was the voice’s fault he hadn’t known, but he knew that was completely unfair.

He still felt off-kilter though, and didn’t like that he didn’t know why. His brow still furrowed he returned to the shore, and after passing the raft back over to Aitòre he climbed up the path toward to the house.

By the time their book lists arrived in late July things had more or less returned to normal with the voice, though he still thought he sensed an echo of that tension at odd times. He tried to put it out of his mind as much as he could however as he figured it wouldn’t do to dwell on something that the entity clearly didn’t want to talk about.

Checking over the list that morning he asked Tancred, “Do you typically wait to buy your things or do you go to London right away?”

Apparently Tancred had no particular preference either way so that afternoon they Flooed to the Leaky Cauldron and set off to Gringotts. Some quick exchanges and withdrawals later they were strolling down Diagon Alley.

As they approached Flourish and Blotts he saw Tancred giving him an awkward look. Deciding to head him off Tom said, “I’ve just got a stop down this way. Did you want to meet back in an hour?”

Despite the excuse that Tom gave him, his friend looked even more uncomfortable. “Tom, I can . . . help, it’s no trouble.”

He shook his head and took a step back. “No, I don’t want your char—”

“It’s not charity!” Tancred whispered, his eyes wide. “Please, let me—”

“No. Thank you, but really, no.” And without giving the other boy another chance to talk about it he turned and walked rather quickly in the direction of the second hand book shop.

_He seemed quite a bit more . . . insistent than he has before._

Tom pursed his lips. He agreed, and he didn’t know why; Tancred had been so good about kindly looking the other way when any reminders of Tom’s lack of money were even vaguely present.

With a sigh he pressed into the shop and went about selecting his course texts.

An hour later they met back near Flourish and Blotts, Tom having purchased all of his school things—including a few extra books, because how could he _not_ —and presumably Tancred having done the same. Determined to ignore the strangeness he greeted his friend as he approached, then asked, “Is there anything else you planned on looking at? I’ll admit I’ve been curious about a few places in Knockturn but didn’t want to venture into them alone,” he added with what he knew to be an uncharacteristic sheepish grin.

The other boy didn’t quite meet his gaze but agreed to show him around, and they set off down the darker alleyway.

While Tom had shopped in Wizarding Supplies and the apothecary he hadn’t entered any of the more _interesting_ shops, and it seemed that Tancred was familiar enough with them, at least in passing, to point out the types of items that certain ones sold and even enter a few with him. They very much did _not_ enter The Coffin House, after Tancred told him that they sold tools used in Necromancy, which Tom was not prepared to even think about learning at that point. Even the indirect reminder of phylacteries was enough to make him shudder. They did however enter The Starry Prophesier and look at astrology implements, and even took a quick at some of the dark arts paraphernalia in Cobb & Webb’s as well as the curiosity shop.

Their last stop was Borgin and Burkes, and seeing the strange and mostly dangerous antiques within Tom had a hint of an idea, which grew stronger when he saw the prices some of the items were tagged with.

Finally, after they’d exhausted the selection of interesting yet relatively safe shops they made their way back up toward the Leaky Cauldron.

When they entered Tom made for the Floo but his friend caught him by the arm with a conflicted look on his face.

“Do you suppose—do you think you might show me some of what you told us about?” he asked vaguely. Tom frowned, confused, but then caught on as Tancred glanced toward the door leading out to muggle London.

He clenched his jaw, inhaling sharply, then let the breath out slowly. “Not dressed like this. But yes, I can show you if you are certain.”

The other boy nodded, looking nervous, then stepped ahead to the Floo.

_I wonder why he wants to see. He didn’t look like it was morbid curiosity. He looked like he didn’t want to see it, but, I don’t know, he felt like he had to for some reason?_

Once his friend had disappeared into the flames Tom stepped toward the grate, and shrugged for the benefit of the voice, and himself. He didn’t know either.

Back at Lestrange Lake they both changed into more muggle clothing, though their outfits looked a bit formal for their age. They were about to leave when Tom remembered to collect his papers, then had to think for a bit about what to do for Tancred. Finally, a bit of effort and many adjusted duplicates later he handed a very illegal set of papers to his friend, and said in a serious voice, “Hold onto that and don’t lose it.”

The other boy just nodded, his eyes wide.

_He looks terrified,_ the voice suddenly said. Then it added, _He should. That’s good._

Taking another deep breath Tom returned to the fireplace and travelled through to the pub.

It was only once they were standing just inside the door that Tom thought to ask, “How often have you been out in muggle areas?”

Tancred’s mouth was a thin, almost invisible, line. “A few times. More so in France than here, but my father and I used to go fishing, so we’d be out in the countryside near muggles since he said that was part of the experience. And I stepped through the platform barrier before getting onto the Hogwarts Express before first year, to look around.”

Tom stared. He hadn’t even considered that the reasons magical people were so oblivious was because they actually lived so completely and utterly separately, even while their main shopping district was a street away from the largest city in the country.

The voice was clearly thinking something similar as the ripples of emotion Tom was feeling echoed his own.

Finally, he gathered his thoughts and said, “Right. No magic whatsoever, keep your wand away. No talking, in case you use words that you shouldn’t. If you have a question, keep it until there’s no one nearby. If someone talks to us please let me take care of it.” He considered, then added, “And if at any point it’s too much, or you’re feeling overwhelmed, or worried, or _anything_ you need to let me know. Questions?”

Tancred’s eyes had widened even further but after a minute’s consideration he shook his head, so Tom pushed them both through the door and onto Charing Cross Road.

The reaction was immediate, and visceral. Tancred’s entire body flinched, and then he was squinting at the smoky, dirty air, and coughing. Tom let him take the time he needed to get accustomed to it.

Finally, his friend stood straight again, then turned and nodded at him. He led the way toward Westminster, having already decided that his friend would not be seeing any part of Lambeth.

When they arrived at Trafalgar Square Tom himself took the opportunity to look around, as he’d not seen much of this part of the city since the blitz began. He saw sections of street that looked like they’d been excavated, though whether that was the case or whether a bomb blast had opened the ground he wasn’t sure, and various windows in the area looked like they’d been broken.

After letting Tancred take in the buildings, the rubble lining the streets, the men in uniform nearby, Tom continued onward, leading him down Whitehall, pulling the collar of his shirt over his nose as the smell of the Thames assaulted his senses. He’d forgotten about that.

A glance over at Tancred showed that he wasn’t doing much better, his eyes slightly watering, but they had a determined set.

They approached Big Ben, his friend staring up at the tall clocktower, then looking at the wreckage of nearby buildings. They didn’t get too close however as Tom was already leading them down toward Westminster Abbey, wondering how the building had fared.

He looked on, feeling a bitter sort of sadness when he saw the fire damage, the damage to the roof on the large structure.

Another glance at his friend showed him still wide-eyed but not balking yet so Tom continued, taking him through some stone-filled alleys, along skeletons of buildings, until they approached the gates of Buckingham Palace.

A warden immediately hailed them and inspected their papers. Tom and Tancred were both tense and still for the several minutes that it took for them to be handed back their papers and sent on their way.

Finally, standing in front of the enclosed area Tom said quietly, “The King lives there.” And he saw his friend’s eyes somehow widen more as he took in the gaping craters in the ground, the sections of wall that were missing, and the general state of the palace that looked just as bruised and battered as much of the rest of the city he’d seen so far.

Some long minutes later Tancred cleared his throat and nodded at Tom, so he led them down a few different streets, all in varying states of wreckage, until they’d reached Whitehall again.

As they were once more passing by the tall clocktower Tancred asked softly, “Will you show me where you live?”

Tom’s stomach twisted as his mouth thinned, and he felt as the voice tensed up on his behalf. Not meeting his friend’s gaze, which he could feel on the side of his face, he shook his head once sharply.

The tension increased for another few moments, then he sensed his friend look away.

It felt like an age before they finally reached the Leaky Cauldron, and they shared no words as they Flooed back to Tancred’s home. Once they arrived Tom excused himself to go shower, eager to clean away the smell of London, and also have some escape from his friend.

“I wish I knew what has gotten into him,” Tom muttered as he stepped under the water. “Why is he suddenly being all pushy?”

_I don’t want to make any assumptions,_ the voice said vaguely. _I think it comes from a good place, though. I don’t think there’s any malice to it._

“That doesn’t make it any more enjoyable.”

_If it’s any consolation I’m sure he feels pretty uncomfortable right now._

Tom groaned, then leaned his forehead against the shower wall. “That doesn’t help, no. I don’t want him to feel bad, but I just don’t want him to _push_. Why can’t he just be his usual self.” He thumped his head gently against the wall for good measure, then stepped back under the water.

After he felt clean he grabbed his journal, the chunk of Pensieve, and the tome that Mr Lestrange had found for him and settled in to do some more poking and prodding when his friend joined him, and slid into his usual quiet but helpful demeanor.

It was comfortable. But also jarring, how completely different it was to the entirely unpleasant earlier part of the afternoon. Tom tried his best to clamp down on his frustration and simply enjoy the time he was spending with his friend.

By the middle of August they had made some minor headway on the Pensieve project, determining a few of the runes that they would need to add to the final structure in order to make it function, though they still hadn’t the faintest idea how to _design_ that final structure. But it was progress, and it was achieved with minimal awkwardness between them.

In the second-to-last week of August Rhys joined them at Lestrange Lake for a visit, and promptly found some brooms that had been somewhere in the home and dragged them all out to race each other above the lake. Enjoying the boy’s glee he found himself not so reluctant to join in, and ended up actually enjoying the thrill, allowing the tips of his feet to drag through the surface of the water, leaving trails of ripples behind him.

And if one of his reasons for agreeing was to feel the unbridled joy cascading through his mind from the voice, then he didn’t need to admit that.

In the final week of August Alexius invited their group out to lunch in some quaint wizarding village somewhere in the Cotswolds, and Tom was intrigued to note that Fawley had been invited along as well, for some reason. He was relieved to find that despite whatever strangeness had happened a month earlier, things had returned near enough to normal that he was able to exchange amused glances with Tancred each time Alexius would address the girl.

That weekend, they packed their things, and on Sunday morning they had their final breakfast at Lestrange Lake before Flooing to the platform in London. As much as he was relaxed after a relatively stress-free summer, he was still a touch nervous about what news the next year would bring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wartime bombings destroyed sections of the Victorian-era sewer system that helped keep the Thames clean. The sewage system and the river’s health didn’t start to recover until the 1960s.
> 
> The ‘Dig for Victory’ campaign was active in the UK throughout World War II, and encouraged men and women across the country to grow their own fruits and vegetables in light of the limited food production and imports during this time. Open spaces were turned into allotments, public parks turned into vegetable patches, sports fields turned into gardens or areas for livestock to graze.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning:**
> 
> This chapter, along with many of the following chapters, contains non-graphic references to WWII. These references are based on factual records from the time, including dates, locations, events. I have not manufactured or exaggerated these events.
> 
> At no point will the references to the atrocities of WWII be graphic, however they may be difficult to read about.

When Tom and Tancred arrived Rayner had already claimed a compartment so they joined him, immediately starting up the usual chatter about their summers, even though they had just seen each other a few days prior. Gradually over the following ten minutes the other boys arrived, and soon the train was in motion.

_I wonder who’s going to address the elephant in the room,_ the voice mused, and Tom’s lip quirked in response. Certainly, there were some glances being exchanged and Rhys was staring at Alexius with rather a lack of subtlety.

Not wanting to be the one to poke _that,_ Tom asked, “Rayner, any issues with Alcott during the summer?” That topic had of course not come up during their lunch as the boys hadn’t been alone.

He shook his head. “None at all. A few of the people I’d written to wrote me, probably a little confused by the lack of further correspondence, but I seem to have put them off. And there was no sign of my parents being aware.”

Rayner didn’t seem to be carrying any sign of the tension that had previously been so usual to see on him, so Tom gathered he was being honest enough about the matter.

Conversation dropped into a lull, until finally Rhys couldn’t take it and asked, “What’s up with Fawley, anyway?”

Tom bit his lip, and he heard a snort from the back of his mind.

Alexius, to his credit, didn’t blink though some colour did form high on his cheekbones. “What do you mean? Rhea is a dear friend.”

Rhys gave him a bewildered look. “Since when?”

Tom could see Rayner smirking, but a glance to the boy beside him saw Tancred gazing out the window.

“Why, I’ve had countless wonderful conversations with her over the years. I don’t know why that is so surprising.”

“Alex, I’m pretty sure I’ve heard you say on at least three occasions that she might have inherited her uncle’s madness. I’m not seeing it,” the other boy said flatly, then frowned when Rayner let a small snort slip.

“Well, I think you are simply jealous that I have made friends outside of this group here. In fact, I might just go spend the ride with _them,_ as you are being so rude.” And with that Alexius stalked out of the compartment, the back of his neck quite rosy.

Rayner’s shoulders were shaking.

Rhys looked around at the rest of them, seeming quite lost, so Tom took pity on him. “I am pretty sure he’s courting Fawley. Or at least, he’d like to be.”

The boy blinked. “ _Oh._ Why didn’t he just say so?” He sat back with a huff.

Rayner snickered then, jostling Rhys a bit, to which the smaller boy responded by grumbling. “Well, any other paramours I should know about?” he asked sulkily.

Alexius didn’t end up returning until they were nearly at the station, and he did so with a particularly haughty expression.

As they piled into carriages to ride up to the castle Mulciber invited himself to sit with them.

“Congratulations on the prefect post,” Tom offered, while dislodging himself from the casual arm that the older boy had flung around his shoulders. He saw Tancred glaring at the boy, likely for the intrusion into their carriage.

Mulciber smirked. “Thank you, friend. I’ll be sure to put the appointment to good use. And speaking of being useful, we should discuss our arrangement,” he continued.

Tom quirked a brow. He had wondered if there would be some renegotiations, given how unbalanced things had ended up the previous year. “After the feast?”

“Yes, once I’ve finished scaring the firsties. Start thinking about your terms, and hope that I feel generous again this year,” Mulciber drawled as they pulled up to the castle doors, before striding off to join some of the other fifth years. 

Tom noticed the curious looks that his friends were giving him but just shook his head, saying, “Later.” He didn’t want Dumbledore, who was loitering in the entrance hall, to get any ideas.

The sorting was long again, much like the previous year. And the new students looked so _tiny_. Then again, he mused, looking around at his friends now he was almost as tall as Alexius, though he wasn’t sure exactly when that had happened.

Once everyone was seated and the announcements were behind them they settled in to eat, and Tom overheard some of the new first years discussing the situation in France.

Apparently, a number of towns had been razed to the ground. With Fiendfyre.

Their end of the table certainly seemed more subdued than usual while they ate, and sometime later Tom and his friends were gathered in the common room. The other boys immediately turned to him once they’d found seats, knowing that it would be some time before the prefects led the first years down to the dungeons.

“Arrangement?” Tancred asked, the tension around his eyes in conflict with his casual tone.

Tom glanced around to see who was present so far in the common room. On some nearby chairs there was a group of sixth years, and on a sofa near the dormitories were a pair of second years, but they all seemed to be more or less focusing on their own affairs.

“He helped me out with some spellcasting practice last year. As a target, specifically,” he added, seeing some frowns forming.

“A _target?_ ” asked Rhys. “Do you have something on him? Why’s he letting you do _that?_ ”

Tom shrugged. “Honestly? I couldn’t tell you. But he offered to let me practice casting curses on him. Who knows, maybe he enjoys it?”

He felt the voice startle at that, then chortle.

Rayner narrowed his eyes in thought. “I’d be careful. Even if he’s submitting himself to that, he’s still a witness to what you’re casting.”

“It hasn’t been anything illegal, or even questionably legal,” Tom was sure to clarify. “Just not necessarily the most enjoyable.”

The others appeared to visible relax at that assurance.

“Is he casting anything on you?” Tancred asked softly.

“Absolutely not. No, all he wanted in return last year was for me to let him listen in when I spoke to the snake painting.” He shrugged carelessly. “I definitely benefited more than he did. I’m a bit concerned he’ll ask for more this year, but I can always say no.”

“Certainly,” Alexius said, finally jumping in. Thus far he’d been sitting quietly, frowning. “And if he tries to pressure you, or hold things against you, don’t forget that we’re here.”

Tom nodded. “Thank you, I’ll let you all know.”

At about that point the serpent noticed his presence and started hissing, pleading for his attention because it was _so bored,_ so after rolling his eyes he wandered over to let it natter on at him until more students joined them.

By the time Slughorn had arrived and announced Mulciber and a girl named Wright as the new fifth year prefects his friends were making noises about going to unpack, so Tom waved them off. Only Tancred lingered, and once the others had disappeared down the hallway toward their dormitory he spoke.

“I know we haven’t talked about London,” he began quietly, and Tom felt himself tense slightly, “but I was wondering if you minded if we spoke about that to the others. I think they would want to know what it was like, what it _felt_ like, to someone who wasn’t accustomed to it.”

Tom exhaled a great sigh, leaning back in his chair as he thought. He hadn’t been necessarily as opposed to Tancred witnessing his wreck of a city, since he felt like he was closer to him than the others, and the two of them had certainly shared more painful memories, secrets, than he’d shared with the rest of their group. But, he reasoned, to have more options open to him would be to have more protection available, if needed, and perhaps they would be willing to help further, if he was somehow able to start to work on _fixing_ things once he was done at Hogwarts. . . .

The voice had been rather quiet, though Tom could feel it observing everything closely. Not sensing any insightful advice, or warnings, from that area he nodded. “That should be fine. After I finish with Mulciber?” he asked, flitting his eyes over to where the fifth year prefects were speaking to the youngest students.

Tancred nodded then retreated to the dorms himself, leaving Tom to wait alone.

After the huddle of first years had dispersed Mulciber sauntered over and flung himself in a nearby chair.

“I hope to rectify a certain imbalance that was present last year,” the prefect said immediately while he sprawled, clearly quite comfortable.

“I can’t imagine what you mean,” Tom replied airily. “You proposed the exchange, and I simply agreed to it.”

He flapped a hand. “Yes, yes, and that was my foolish mistake. Now, this year I’d like you to use your snakes for my benefit. At least that way I know I’m actually getting a return on my investment.”

Tom raised a brow. “While I could possibly be persuaded, I would need to set parameters on that. I’m not giving you free access to any and all use of them. Tell me what you’re hoping for and I’ll tell you what I can agree to.”

Mulciber’s face pinched as he considered, though a smirk played around the corner of his mouth. “I want them to watch the students for me. Patrols, relaying what students are up to, telling me who goes where, with whom. . . . I’d like them to be my eyes on the school.”

“You can have one snake, and it will watch a person you assign it to,” Tom countered, narrowing his eyes.

“Five snakes; one to follow each house, and one for additional assignments.”

“Two snakes, and that is my final offer,” Tom said, his eyes hard.

“Excellent!” Mulciber smiled broadly, and Tom narrowed his eyes further wondering if he’d agreed to too much. “How about we set things up right now then, and schedule our weekly meetings.”

Tom turned to address the painting on the wall and passed along some instructions, then had another thought which had him turning back to face the other boy. “I’m wondering if you’d be open to an _addition_ to our current meetings. Another type of magic I’d like to practice,” he said slowly, tilting his head as he watched the other boy’s reaction.

The eyes widened slightly, and the gaze was intrigued. Mulciber leaned forward slightly. “Please, do tell.”

Tom could also feel the curiosity emanating from the spot at the base of his skull, as he hadn’t considered the possibility previously nor discussed it. “Legilimency.”

He immediately noticed a sort of tension coil in the back of his mind, but what was presently more interesting was that Mulciber’s eyes appeared to brighten in excitement.

“That will be a separate agreement, with a separate price.”

Tom nodded, and waited as Mulciber tilted his head back and tapped idly against the arm of his chair, clearly lost in thought. After a few minutes he lowered his head again and met Tom’s gaze.

“You’ll spend at least one week of the Christmas hols at my family’s home. If you do that, and should things conclude well there, then we will add that to our sessions.” Tom opened his mouth immediately to ask all sorts of questions but Mulciber was still talking. “That is a requirement, not merely an idea of a price. And I don’t need confirmation now; you can let me know at any point before the train leaves.”

Tom shut his mouth, thinking furiously. What was he _up_ to?

_You have over three months until you need to sign up to stay at the castle, so you have time to think about it. Very carefully._

“I will let you know.”

The other boy gave him a curt nod and they finalised details on their meeting time and location for that upcoming year. After a giving him lazy smile the other boy left, and Tom finally made his way to the dormitory wearing a frown.

Once the door was closed behind him he was immediately the focus of the room.

“So? What did he want?” Rhys asked, half-standing from where he had been sitting on his bed.

“I agreed to let him use two painted snakes to be his eyes around the castle.”

“Will he be casting on you this year?” Tancred asked, his brow furrowed. Tom just shook his head and his friend simply said, “Good.”

“That still seems quite unbalanced,” said Rayner. “He’s still being subjected to presumably harmful curses, while you’re not. And even if he does have serpents spying on people, how is he to know what they see? He has to trust that you’ll be honest about that. Actually, he’ll have to trust that you even give his orders to the snakes properly in the first place.”

_I have to agree. The whole thing is bizarre. Almost too strange to even be suspicious._

Tom nodded, agreeing with both Rayner and the voice. He then considered sharing what they’d spoken about regarding Legilimency but refrained. He wasn’t sure if he would end up going through with that visit, and if he didn’t, then there was no need to get his friends even more worried on his behalf.

He then set about unpacking, as the others were just exchanging glances and not asking him any more questions. A few minutes later he heard a throat clear.

“Tancred mentioned that we might benefit from another conversation about muggle affairs,” Alexius said, sounding as though he wasn’t sure if the words were safe.

Tom finished retrieving some of the books that he’d want to leave out and then sat down, noting as he did so that the engraved runes that he’d installed the previous year were still visible on the bedpost.

“I showed him a small part of muggle London this summer,” he confirmed. “I’m not sure what exactly I have to share that I haven’t explained already. Tancred?”

The other boy nodded and seemed to steel himself, then told the assembled group about the sights he’d seen on their walk through the streets of Westminster. About the city blocks that had been flattened, about the evidence of fires and bombs that were on every stone, about the network of smoke trails in the sky, the military men bearing weapons, the taste of fear that was present in every gulp of putrid air. . . .

Tom felt a shudder come over him as his friend described his experience, and though he had already seen it, and even lived some of it, he couldn’t help but feel the creeping sensation of unease rising on the back of his neck.

The other boys didn’t look to be doing much better.

And something about that rankled him. He had already explained what was happening to muggles, what was happening to anyone who wasn’t living within a protected magical society, and while his friends had offered to help and support him, just witnessing the current exchange impressed upon him how much they had _not_ understood. How much they could only understand if it came from someone _like them._

He felt something unpleasant twisting in his stomach.

He dragged himself out of his thoughts and returned to the present just as Tancred finished his tale, and as his friends turned to look at him.

He felt the corners of his mouth pull downward, and his eyes harden, so he took a deep breath and held it for a moment.

“I’d like to get some rest. We can resume this later this week.” And without waiting for a response from the others he got ready for bed and hid himself away behind his curtains.

* * *

When they were issued their timetables in the morning Tom saw that their year would start with the longest day of the week, beginning with a full morning of Herbology and ending with a nighttime Astronomy class. He took several minutes to review the class times, noting that he had Monday and Wednesday mornings completely free of classes, and later starts on Thursdays and Fridays; he would be putting those open spots on his timetable to good use.

Of note was the fact that Divination that year was in the evening, and located in a different classroom in the North Tower than the one they’d used the previous year.

Some hours later Tom and his friends were stomping their way back up to the castle from the Greenhouses, intent on showering during their lunch break after discovering that they weren’t able to completely dissipate the stench of Bubotuber pus using charms. Yes, it was interesting that rather than re-potting and trimming plants that year they would be extracting ingredients from them; no, it was not enjoyable to be covered in _pus_.

They were feeling and smelling quite refreshed when they queued in the Transfiguration Corridor after lunch, and looks of amusement were traded among Tom’s dorm mates when Dowling and Fairfax of Gryffindor asked to sit with him, since he’d been so helpful last year. Quirking a small smile as he saw Dumbledore watching on he nodded and said, not quietly at all, that _of course_ he’d be most pleased to sit with them this year, and he was _so happy_ he had been able to help last year.

That year they would apparently be covering an intensive series of cross-species transfigurations, before spending a considerable amount of time in the spring focusing on Vanishment and Conjuration. After what he’d read in that year’s text, he supposed the Gryffindors were smart to seek help now, as that year’s syllabus promised to be quite the step up in difficulty from prior years.

Their day ended with Potions, and other than seeing an enormous list of antidotes included on the syllabus the only thing of note was that Rayner had received an invitation to the Slug Club. As they left the classroom at the end of the afternoon the other boy looked rather pleased.

“I know that it’s mostly because he’s been talking to my father about some recent potions conferences, but still,” Rayner was saying as they climbed up to the ground floor for dinner.

At dinner their usual seating arrangement of the past several years was turned on its head when Alexius, rather than sitting between Rhys and Rayner, opted instead to sit several spots over between Fawley and, since she typically sat on the far side of the girls, the third years. Some raised eyebrows were traded among the rest of their group, and when they returned to the dungeons some thirty minutes later the other boy didn’t follow. Tom wasn’t even sure that he’d noticed them leave the Great Hall.

Rhys looked a bit glum and was sighing quite a bit, and perhaps Rayner took pity on him because the two of them were soon poised opposite each other over a chess set while Tom and Tancred pulled out the start of their assignments. Alexius strolled in only in time to collect his things before their ascent to the Astronomy Tower, and Tom breathed a small sigh of relief when it seemed that their discussion from the night before would be delayed a bit longer.

That night, after their late class ended, Tom was lying awake.

_You still seem pretty upset—well, I’m not sure that’s the right word, but unhappy anyway. What do you expect to come out of the conversation?_

“I’m not altogether certain. I don’t even know how to ask them why they’re so much more torn up over what Tancred told them than what I did earlier. And I’m not sure what it’ll accomplish to dig into all of that anyhow. It’ll just make things more uncomfortable, for me, and I’m sure for them as well. But I’m also wondering why Tancred suddenly wanted to _see_ that, and why he wanted to describe it to the others. Just, why?”

He sensed as the voice seemed to consider and choose its words. _I think that if I hadn’t seen all of you interact before now, I would’ve assumed that Tancred just wanted to see where you came from to use that against you. But I’m confident that is the last thing he’d want to do._

Tom nodded; he didn’t see any trace of that in the boy’s character, either. Despite knowing that he and his friend hadn’t ever had an explicit conversation about his views on blood status. Probably entirely deliberately, on Tancred’s part.

“Maybe he’s setting the foundation for a conversation about their assistance during future summer breaks? Assuming all goes well, I might be able to work and stay in Hogsmeade after fifth year as I’ll have my O.W.L.s. But that still leaves next summer.”

_Maybe._ The voice didn’t necessarily sound doubtful, but neither did it sound particularly convinced.

“I’ll still need to figure out when to catch Stalk and see what all I’ve missed from the muggle news,” he then said. “I suppose, on the topic of both that and next summer. . . .” Tom bit his lip and looked upward, thinking, hoping. “Will things let up by the time I finish Hogwarts?”

There was a long silence, a prickly one, and then the voice asked, _What year are we in at this point?_

“1941.”

The next silence was even longer, and there was a tangible weight to it. Finally, when the voice spoke its one-word response, it was laden with so much sorrow Tom felt his throat tighten.

_No._

Tom slept badly that night. His mind wouldn’t calm, too busy with all of his lists and his projects and his plans for that year, and beyond. And when he did find sleep, it was only to discover that his Boggart had found his dreams, ensuring that any slumber he managed was short-lived, and fitful.

The next morning Tom managed to meet with Stalk for a few minutes, and was almost pleased to learn that there had been no new nor significant events since the end of term in June, though his mood turned solemn as he was told a summary of the towns that had still seen damage from attacks.

Even so, he spent the rest of the morning in the Room in fairly decent spirits, opting to spend the time while Tancred was in his Muggle Studies class starting on his first attempts at nonverbal spells, beginning with some of his most commonly-used charms.

Alexius was completely absent at lunch, as was Fawley, though they both arrived at that afternoon’s Defence class appearing flushed. Rhys was still looking rather put-out so Tom decided to sit next to him, and perhaps distract the boy from whatever it was that was bothering him about their friend’s affections.

Once Merrythought had finished taking the register she launched into a lecture on legal aspects of darker magics, and the varying scales of legality when it came to defence against those same magics. According to the syllabus they would be spending the first term on that topic, even going so far as to learn about the history and punishment of the Unforgivables.

After reading that Tom felt a shiver make its way down his spine.

In Arithmancy the next morning they started the term discussing numerology and decryption, which they would be spending the next many weeks covering. Their Runes syllabus revealed that they would be focusing on rune structure design in the second term, which occasioned a small disappointment over the further delay of his Pensieve project. And then late on Thursday evening he and Tancred climbed up to the very top of the North Tower, several floors higher than their class had been located the previous year, and were intrigued to see a silver ladder leading to this year’s classroom.

The voice groaned.

Despite the dramatics from the voice Tom was quite pleased to see the space when they entered and found their seats. The room was round, and unlit except for the small hooded lanterns that sat upon each desk. And above the ceiling had been enchanted like the one in the Great Hall, the sky awash with purples, pinks, oranges, and deep blues, as the sun must have just been setting when their class began.

Apparently they would be studying astrology during the winter term when night fell earlier, and Tom could not wait.

The next day in Charms they learned that they would be focusing on a plethora of offensive spells, along with several charms that Tom had already covered in the club during the previous two years.

And then it was Friday evening, and his friends were definitely starting to give him some too-patient looks. So after finishing their dinner and retreating to their dormitory, Tom settled in for what was sure to be an unpleasant conversation.

Rayner was the one to start them off, surprisingly enough.

“I think that we all understand that this is difficult for you to talk about,” he began. “I think that it’s fairly clear to all of us how horrid this situation is, and that it upsets you on many different levels. So let’s talk about the various impacts, and what we’re going to do about them.” He spoke matter-of-factly, and it was that alone that helped alleviate some of the dread that had pooled in the pit of Tom’s stomach.

_That was quite direct._

Tom bit his lip, thinking. “We’re talking about a war that is destroying most of this country, not to mention other countries around the world. What could _we_ do?”

Rhys was nodding, looking quite glum, but Rayner was already responding. “We don’t need to solve the war today. But each of us can help look for solutions for _you,_ specifically. And one day, when school is behind us and we have the full weight of our family connections and the freedom of being of age, we can work toward making sure this ends. And if this war has already ended by that time, we can make sure that a new one doesn’t start.”

Tom took those words in and considered them for long moments, then looked around at the other boys. Tancred seemed to be watching everyone, his eyes very slightly narrowed, his forehead creased in thought, while Alexius bore a focused expression.

He then nodded. “Those seem like reasonable goals then, for now.”

“Let’s figure out the holidays first, then,” Alexius declared, clasping his hands together. “What is your plan for Yule?”

“You’re welcome at mine,” Tancred said immediately. “My parents have already confirmed it, and my mother insists on meeting you since she didn’t have the opportunity this summer.”

“Thank you,” Tom said. “I may have some things to take care of during one of the weeks, but I will confirm with you by the time the sign-up is posted for staying over.”

Something unreadable flickered in Tancred’s gaze, but Tom’s attention was drawn back over to Alexius as he continued, “And next summer?”

“I’ll ask Dippet,” he said with a grimace. “Maybe Dumbledore won’t talk him out of letting me stay here again.”

“What?” Rhys exclaimed. “He actually told Dippet not to let you stay here? Why!?”

“Something about the power of love,” Tom said with a sneer. “A loving home will apparently protect me against a city being flattened.”

Rhys was throwing one of his pillows across the room in frustration when Tancred spoke up. “I’m sure my parents would be happy to host you again. I’d need to confirm it with them, of course, but my father seemed pleased enough with you.”

“I would offer, but my father and I had to travel quite a bit this summer now that he has all of his speaking engagements, and I expect that to be the case next summer as well,” Rayner said with an apologetic shrug.

“And my cousins like to visit for months at a time between spring and autumn, and you do _not_ want to meet them,” Rhys piped up with a scowl.

“I can ask my father if he’d object to hosting you, in case things should not work out with the Lestranges,” Alexius offered. “I unfortunately cannot make any promises, as my father can be rather opinionated about certain matters, but I will at least present the idea to him.”

Tom pursed his lips, recalling who he greatly suspected had written the _Pure-Blood Directory_ , and couldn’t help but agree with that warning. “Thank you. I suppose I can also see if there’s any work to be found in Knockturn Alley. I don’t suppose they’re as strict in that area when it comes to employing underage students?”

_Oh, I_ really _don’t like that idea, Tom._

Tancred and Alexius shared a look while Rayner frowned. The latter then replied, “You may be able to find work there, if that’s what you prefer. It might be best if one of us ask around on your behalf, though. To make sure you aren’t being swindled, or . . . worse.”

Tom nodded, understanding the voice’s stance but also wanting to preserve some independence. “I wouldn’t mind that then, as an option.”

Rayner nodded once. “Excellent, that’s settled then. We can return to this in a few weeks once we have some updates. Now, future goals. Tom, you clearly want things to be better. What would things look like to you in a better Britain?”

Tom felt an odd shift at the back of his mind, as if the voice was suddenly completely alert. Feeling more than a little unsettled he furrowed his brow and leaned against a bedpost, organising his thoughts.

“There needs to be better communication. There needs to be accountability from those in power. There needs to be less ignorance of the world outside of magical Britain—and I don’t just mean the muggles, though that is certainly a part of it, but also other countries.”

He tilted his head upward, thinking. “Our world’s mantra seems to be ‘out of sight, out of mind.’ And that allows corrupt and ineffective politicians to remain in power for far too long, and it allows not one but two wars to be waged right next door to us, and yet the average person seems oblivious to all of it because it doesn’t very obviously or personally seem to impact them.

“I don’t know if that means there needs to be more oversight at the Ministry, or if there should be some separate ethics board, or if the people in power should be made to swear vows to ensure their actions while in power are made for the right reasons, or any number of different possibilities, but _something_ needs to be done. And I don’t know how to fix the whole matter of ignorance of reality in this country, except to say that its education needs to be fixed, and its news publishing standards need to be, well, created probably.”

He tilted his head back down again to look around at his friends, then gave a sigh. “I just don’t know. We also have power—we have _magic_ —and we could do good for the world with it, but we’re all so caught up in our own problems that we’re letting millions of people kill each other and it’s okay because it’s not us.”

He could see the assessing looks around him but what struck him most after he concluded his impromptu speech was the feeling of complete and utter shock from the back of his mind. That made the corner of his mouth quirk up; he could apparently still surprise the voice.

Finally, Alexius spoke, and he was back to his typical haughty self. “Well, I for one would be quite pleased to support such measures. Yes, it would change how many families conduct our business—coin always changing hands, of course—but we would certainly do well to clean up our society, and clear the way for a more effective future. What does everyone say, shall we work together in this?”

Rhys looked a bit dumbfounded but he was nodding, Tancred was smiling his funny little smile, and Rayner was agreeing with that pinched, focused expression on his face. A bit bemused, Tom’s smile widened a fraction. Apparently he shouldn’t have been running away from this confrontation after all.

* * *

Term seemed to speed by after that. Soon they were through their second week of classes, and Tom had attended his first Duelling Club meeting, which had been exhilarating. Merrythought had set them up right away practicing different stances, shield charms, and dodges, and the students were all weary but smiling by the time they trudged out of the classroom two hours later.

In the first meeting of the Charms Club Tom had been pleased to see that almost all of the Slytherin second years and even a few of the first years had chosen to attend, which he was fairly certain had caused the startled look on Smethwyck’s face when she’d arrived on that first Saturday. He had been further amused when Miller, a second year Gryffindor girl, had practically glued herself to his side; he later learned that her older brother was in his Transfiguration class, and had told her that Tom would be able to help her cast the more difficult spells.

Well, it was nice that he had such a good reputation in Dumbledore’s own house. He wanted to laugh in delight each time the thought crossed his mind.

In his first meeting with Mulciber he practiced some truly gruesome and horrible hexes, and had to call for a stop after only fifteen minutes. He stoically ignored the smirks that the older boy was giving him and tried to steel himself, but it was difficult to go back to causing this much pain _intentionally_ after a summer of having put all thought of it behind him.

And through it all, Alexius was still sitting with Fawley at meals and disappearing on weekends, and Rhys was frequently seen—and heard—stomping about.

When October arrived Tom finally set up a meeting with Dippet, having put it off for long enough, and submitted his request by the end of the first week of the month. And then, feeling at a bit of a loss as to what he should focus his efforts on, he started on a new project.

He was sitting on his bed one Saturday morning with books arranged around him, idly taking notes in his journal when Rhys stomped through the door, throwing his Quidditch gear into the corner next to his bed, and muttering to himself. After raising his brow Tom cleared his throat, and felt a smile pulling at his lips when the other boy spun around, clearly startled.

“All right there?”

Rhys grunted. “Hope so. Flint was finishing up with detention when we were on our way back and said he had a near run-in with some wolves. This bloody place.” He turned around again and started rummaging around in his trunk.

“Wolves? There aren’t any wolves in Britain,” Tom told him in a mild tone, turning back to his notes.

“Well he heard _something_ howling. A bunch of them, apparently. He was mucking out the Thestral stables and apparently they were right outside.”

Tom frowned, then looked up. “Thestrals? There are Thestrals here?”

“Well, yes. They pull the carriages, don’t they,” the other boy replied with a confused look on his face.

Tom hummed, then gave a little shrug. “That’s interesting, I didn’t know. Is Flint all right, then?”

“I hope so. Though I’m sure he’s going to be miserable in Creatures class now.”

Their conversation fell into a lull and Rhys finished whatever it was he’d been doing in his corner of the room. As he was making his way back toward the door a thought occurred to Tom, and he called out, “Rhys—do you have any books about brooms? Broomcare, broom-making, anything of that sort?”

That was clearly the last thing the boy had expected Tom to ever ask for as he let out what could have been a squawk of surprise, an expression of glee quickly spreading across his face while he practically sprinted back toward his trunk. A minute later a book was being tossed his way.

“Please let me know if you need any more. Or if you want to go for a fly. Or if you want to borrow any of my Quidditch subscriptions—anything, really!” Rhys told him with a grin, then bounced out of the room.

_What are you working on?_ the voice asked, sounding bemused.

“Well if you can’t pick it up from my thoughts, or from the types of books I’m using as a reference. . . .” He trailed off and looked pointedly at his spellcrafting book, an advanced Charms text, and now his dorm mate’s copy of _Complete Broom Maintenance_ which was frankly much larger than he’d expected for the subject matter.

_You’re making a broomstick?_

His lip quirked in amusement. “Ah, not quite. Better.” Then he shut his mouth and flipped open his friend’s book, wanting to better acquaint himself with broom enchantments.

By the end of October he’d returned the broomcare book and taken his project to the library, and continued to poke and prod at it along with the unresolved question of the current location of the Gaunt family, and his exploration of soul magic within the Restricted Section. It was a Thursday afternoon, after Potions had concluded and before they were due to make the long climb to their evening Divination class, when a sigh had him looking across the library table at Tancred.

“All right?” he asked quietly, seeing the other boy’s grimace as he began furiously crossing out whatever he’d been working on.

“It’s this dratted numerology for Arithmancy. Have you worked on yours yet?” he asked, tossing his quill down on his parchment and allowing ink splatters to shower the page.

Tom blinked. “Not really. I mean, I tried a few in class when she started the exercise but they were nonsensical.”

“Mine are just depressing,” Tancred said glumly, then after a brief hesitation he slid his page across to Tom.

Aryabhata had them studying and applying some Pythagorean method to their names and birth dates, as apparently those numbers could apply significant meaning to a person’s future. But she had also assigned them a method of finding significant messages hidden within their names, which could be further calculated into significant numbers.

And looking over Tancred’s various attempts to find hidden messages in his name, Tom was inclined to agree: they weren’t the happiest ones.

> Tancred Lestrange  
> = CENTRED. ANCESTRAL  
> = NARRATED NEGLECTS

Tom frowned. “And with your middle name? She said that—”

The other boy slid over another note, one which he’d crumpled up into a tight ball.

> Tancred Loís Lestrange  
> = ALONE SCARRED SETTLING

“And my number. Do you know what my number is? It’s a five. Because of _course_ it is.” Tom could see his friend’s fists clenching and unclenching, while he looked hard at the table.

Tom glanced over at his class text and scanned the number symbolism section, searching for that number. Then his lips pursed. 5, the number representing human life and marriage, as the sum of the female (2) and the male (3); at times representing embarrassment, as the early users of this type of arithmancy had forgotten to account for the fifth of their five elements in some of their discoveries.

Tom didn’t really know what to say. He remembered how shaken his friend had sounded when he’d explained his Boggart, when he’d described what his future meant for him. And if arithmancy was to be believed, it was further enforcing that future, or at least the strength of the pull that it had on Tancred.

“Well, at least mine can probably cheer you up a bit,” he offered, hoping he could at least lighten the mood. He flipped over to the journal page where he’d done his scribbling and pushed it across the table.

> Tom Riddle  
> =TIMED LORD  
> = MR DIED LOT

“See? It’s nonsense,” he said with a smile. And the voice apparently agreed, since it had erupted into uncontrollable laughter when he’d written ‘Timed Lord’ in class, to the point that Tom had had to excuse himself from the classroom for five minutes so that he wouldn’t burst into laughter himself due to the pressure of the entity’s hilarity.

And sure enough, Tancred’s lip twitched, and the deep frown line relaxed somewhat. “Mr Died Lot? That is quite droll, in a dark way, I’ll give you that. What about with your middle name?”

Tom reached over and flipped to the next page. “Those are also silly.”

> Tom Marvolo Riddle  
> = IMMORTAL ODD LOVER  
> = LORD IMMORTAL DOVE

Tancred let out a soft snort, tracing a finger over the words, and Tom smiled, relieved that they’d managed to push past the unpleasantness of the earlier moment. At least until he’d have to complete the assignment, but it wasn’t due for another week.

Then he saw Tancred’s head tilt a bit, and he squinted as he started mouthing syllables with a finger held on the ‘Lord’ of the second entry. Then he grabbed a quill and started sketching out whatever he was working through.

“There,” he finally said, pushing the journal back over to Tom.

> = I AM LORD VOL DE MORT

As he read the letters he felt the voice practically choke on a sharp intake of breath, and then it went very, very still. Not having a clue how to deal with that Tom simply raised a brow at his friend. “What is that supposed to be? I mean, it certainly sounds pretentious, but I don’t speak . . . French?”

Tancred nodded. “Flight of Death. Or, Flight from Death. Or also Theft of Death.”

Tom thought about that, then shrugged a little. “That’s clever, I suppose. I’m not sure that Aryabhata’s going to want us to mix together languages for our assignment, but it certainly fits the theme.”

His friend nodded. “I see that. A French name relating to death, and other combinations involving death or immortality. What’s your number?”

“Seven,” he replied. “All sevens. Seven with and without my middle name, and seven when I did the extended calculations. Seven for my birth number also.”

“Hmm. That’s the complete number, right?”

“Yes, and that astrology book you gave me last year had some points about the number seven as well. Meanings like ‘life essence.’”

Tancred looked intrigued. “Well, it certainly seems like the signs are being pretty pointed about where you’re headed.” Then his glum expression returned. “Not unlike myself,” he muttered.

Thankfully they wrapped up that topic and moved onto different forms of numerology in the following weeks, and soon Tancred’s dark mood had brightened. No amount of questioning the voice revealed what had it so shaken about the ‘Vol de Mort’ business, but that wasn’t to say that the funny name disappeared—on the contrary, once Tancred had shared their findings with their group of friends the other boys took to calling him ‘My Lord’ on occasion, while exchanging smirks.

Tom was often rolling his eyes, though he had to admit the name was sounding less and less silly the more he heard it.

Near the end of November Tom noticed he had started to receive some particularly narrow looks from Dumbledore and it wasn’t until he brought it up in the common room that he got some inkling of clarification on the possible source.

“It’s come up a few times in prefect meetings,” Mulciber was telling them. “Apparently some propaganda’s been found on school grounds, so the staff is watching certain students extra closely. Not sure why Dumbledore’s watching _you_ though, not when you’ve got a Rosier and a Lestrange in your year.”

“Hey!” Rhys exclaimed indignantly. “Watch what you say about my family, Mulciber!”

The prefect raised his hands in an innocent gesture while giving him a mocking smile. “Well it’s true, isn’t it? Don’t you have cousins in Grindelwald’s army?”

As the smaller boy’s started to stand Rayner calmly interjected. “I don’t see why Dumbledore should know our particular families’ alliances, not those that are so removed from Britain. It’s not like our families were ever really involved with the Dumbledores anyhow.”

Tancred’s expression became shifty then, though he didn’t speak. Mulciber just gave a vague sort of shrug. “You didn’t hear it from me. But if you do happen to see his symbol anywhere, either dispose of it or remove yourself to somewhere far away, lest you be caught in a compromising position.” And then he wandered off, apparently done with the conversation.

Rhys grumbled, “I don’t see why Dumbledore gets to just suspect students and assign people to watch us. When has _he_ shown good judgment, anyway?”

Tom sighed; even the thought of Dumbledore was wearying at this point. “We can’t do anything about him. So we might as well just ignore his stupid suspicious looks, and make sure to destroy any propaganda if we find it.”

“Yes, My Lord,” his friends chorused around him, and so Tom very maturely thumped Tancred, who was nearest, on the head with his journal.

December was soon upon them and with it news of an update to the ration, this time with canned goods and processed foods being added to the ever-growing list. By the end of the second week of the month Britain had also apparently declared war on Finland, Hungary, Romania, and Bulgaria, which occasioned for a long moment of reflection for Tom when he tried to think of a single European country that _wasn’t_ involved in the ongoing war.

The muggle news also screamed of some great conflict happening in the Pacific, and Tom couldn’t exactly understand if it was part of the same war that Europe was fighting, or if it was separate but that some of the nations involved were allied, or something else, but he did understand that it meant more war, more deaths, and more time that they would be witnessing more suffering.

With that heavy thought he finally sought out Mulciber to let him know that he’d be spending the second week of the Christmas hols with him and his family, deciding that he would be foolish to shy away from a visit over the break that could allow him to practice a branch of magic that he might need someday. With that settled he confirmed to Tancred that he would be pleased to visit Lestrange Lake for the first week, and didn’t add his name to the list of students staying at Hogwarts. 

Two days before he was due to depart on the Hogwarts Express, news of the amendment to the National Service Act made him pause, and think about his still-tentative plans for the following summer.

> _CALL-UP OF_   
>  _WOMEN_   
>  _—_   
>  _20’s TO REGISTER_   
>  _ON JAN. 10_

Stalk must have seen his deep frown as the professor’s voice cut into his thoughts after a few minutes. “I believe Mrs Cole will likely remain,” the man said quietly. “I can inquire after her, if you should prefer?”

Conscription for all unmarried women between 20 and 30. That meant Martha would definitely be gone, if she hadn’t suddenly found herself a man and married since a year and a half prior. Mrs Cole should still be at Wool’s though, as she was older than the age bracket. But would Wool’s even still be there?

Tom nodded. “Thank you, sir, but I don’t think it’s necessary. I know Mrs Cole isn’t younger than thirty.”

“Very well, Mr Riddle. Do let me know if you change your mind.”

And while a part of him was chastising himself for his growing boldness, later that day Tom found himself in the Room carefully picking through items that most definitely felt cursed, with the intent of selling some goods off at Borgin and Burkes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Newspaper Headline:
> 
> 1\. Dundee Evening Telegraph (December 19, 1941).


	15. Chapter 15

It felt almost wrong, Tom mused, to be riding up to the station to depart for the Christmas break. There was certainly some regret, as he wouldn’t have two weeks with only the voice for company, though he was looking forward to his time with Tancred’s family. The summer had been the best he’d experienced and he was sure that the surrounding countryside would be beautiful in the winter.

The train ride was spent reading, playing chess, and discussing their holiday plans, and before he knew it they were all exchanging well-wishes and handshakes and parting ways at Kings Cross. Tom looked around for Tancred’s father, certain he would recognise the man, but his friend just shook his head and led him to the bank of fireplaces along the far wall.

“They see me off at the start of the year and they greet me in June, but they’re happy enough to let me travel through on my own at the holidays,” he explained as they approached the grates. A toss of some Floo powder and a few words later, Tom was spinning toward his friend’s home.

Aitòre was there immediately to take their trunks and disappear with them, and Tom took a look around. There was sound coming from a tapestry, the music appearing to be played by a strange cranked instrument almost resembling a violin. There were tall grasses growing in pots placed on the mantle where there had been candles over the summer, adding a splash of life to the room. And there was the warm smell of spices coming from somewhere, filling his senses.

“Tancred, darling, is that you?” called a female voice from above, and a moment later a woman looked over the railing of the loft.

“Yes, Mother,” Tancred replied, and Tom noted that he didn’t immediately relax into the ease he had worn the previous summer.

“I’ll be down in a moment to greet you properly. Now, why don’t you find somewhere to sit with your friend so that we can take refreshment.” Her head disappeared a moment later just as the house-elf appeared next to a cluster of armchairs and deposited a tray bearing a tea setting and some small pastries, before vanishing once more.

Tom had just finished preparing his tea when his friend suddenly set his cup down and stood, so he followed suit, just as Tancred’s mother stepped into the room. She had the same jawline, the same sharp brow as her son, though her eyes held a hardness that he’d never seen in his friend’s gaze.

“Mother, may I present my friend, Tom Riddle,” Tancred said, holding himself stiffly.

Tom took the offered hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, madam.”

Her mouth widened a touch but the smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Yes, Tancred has told us so much about you. Please, do sit down.”

After they’d all sat again and she had fixed her own cup of tea she continued. “I understand you both have many of the same classes?”

“Yes, Mother. Though, Tom isn’t taking Muggle Studies.”

“Ah, yes. I understand there wouldn’t be much in that subject left to teach you, isn’t that right,” she responded mildly, as she selected a pastry from the assortment.

Tom felt the voice bristle at that while he replied, “I decided that it would be a better use of my time to focus on some of my own separate research, rather than study a subject I was already familiar with.”

Mrs Lestrange expressed no sort of visible reaction to that and just said, “I have heard much of your studious nature. Tancred is lucky to have you, as a friend.”

Tom noticed a tightness form around Tancred’s eyes, minuscule but one that he recognised nonetheless, though he didn’t have a hope of interpreting it. He then shrugged, a casual expression, and said to his friend’s mother, “And I’m fortunate to have his friendship.”

There was an uncomfortable moment, but then it passed, and their conversation briskly moved along to topics that had Tancred joining in, and even losing some of his tension. Tom knew that there was something going on that he was missing but didn’t have the first clue as to what it could be.

Once their tea was drunk and the last of the pastries nibbled he and Tancred were excused until dinner and so they both made their way out into the cool evening. It was a bit warmer here than it had been at the castle, though Tom could see a pale smattering of snow on the mountain peaks that surrounded the lake. The air was crisp as he inhaled a deep breath.

“I am sorry if that made you uncomfortable,” the other boy said in his soft voice once they were several yards down the path that led to the stable.

Tom glanced over. “It’s no trouble. I knew to expect something other than your father’s welcome. You’ve seemed a bit nervous, at times, when you’ve mentioned that I would be meeting her.”

Seeing that his friend didn’t look convinced, he added, “It could have been much worse. Imagine if you had someone like Meliflua for a mother.”

Tancred was startled into a look of horror, and then shared a laugh with him. “That is very true. Ugh, just imagine how much of a nightmare any child of hers would be.”

“She’d have to find a man willing to put up with her personality, first,” Tom pointed out, then sobered, recalling that not all marriages were born of love. Judging by his friend’s expression his thoughts had followed a similar path.

They’d reached the stables, and Tom reacquainted himself with the two mares while Tancred appeared lost in thought. He allowed a few minutes to pass before asking, “Did you want to go for a ride?”

His friend nodded and soon they were on a slow walk alongside the lake. Sensing that the pensive mood was going to continue Tom soon lost himself in his own thoughts as he considered the projects he’d be working on during the break.

They were just turning around to start making their way back to the house, the sun already setting behind them, when his friend cleared his throat.

“The holidays here will be a bit different from what they do at Hogwarts, I expect,” Tancred said softly. “And also different from what you’ve done elsewhere. My family observes a mix of traditions from Occitania, some practices from the Celts here, along with those a bit more contemporary.”

Tom was intrigued; he hadn’t even stopped to consider that the celebrations might not be what he’d expected. “Do many families observe their own traditions, or are things generally more consistent across the British magical families?”

Tancred gave a small shrug. “It really depends. The Notts do all of the ancient tripe and like to be sure that everyone else knows it. The Malfoys are famous for their grand ball, of course, but apart from that I understand they keep that time of year reserved for close family, and simply spend the time together. The Rosiers are all about enormous family reunions, and towers of gifts, and mead, and carolling. I don’t believe the Averys do anything at all. The Blacks, I’ve heard, do a solemn affair involving the elders terrifying the younger generations, though they might also light a Yule log. The Flints and the Fawleys put up trees and decorate their grounds with elaborate sculpted snow and ice. And the Buchanans apparently always leave the country for the holidays to go watch some international Quidditch.”

Tom’s brows had been rising throughout the response, and he found himself huffing in surprised amusement at the final entry in the list. He could also feel the interest from that spot in the back of his mind. “I hadn’t realised that it was so varied. At Hogwarts it was certainly a spectacle, but not too far away from what I would have expected, I suppose. I look forward to experiencing your family’s celebrations,” he finished with a smile.

His friend’s mood seemed to lighten as they rode back up to the stable, as he described the various activities that the Lestranges typically undertook, and the way that those traditions had evolved over the many generations.

Dinner was also a much more relaxed affair than tea had been, as Tancred’s father had arrived and after greetings were exchanged, the man settled them all into a discussion of his latest research, an apparently fascinating manuscript about a particular court performance in the early twelfth century. Once they had finished eating and were sitting out on the back deck, Aitòre popped in long enough to hand them each a steaming goblet of red flaming liquid.

Tom accepted his gingerly, relaxing slightly as Tancred seemed to react in eagerness upon claiming his.

“That there is byrrh flambé, something we like to enjoy in the winter,” Mr Lestrange said, before taking a sip of his similarly-flaming goblet and humming happily.

Tom looked down at his own. It looked like wine, though the scent of mulling spices rose from it, and he felt no heat from the flames while his hands were warm where they held the beverage. He tried a tentative sip, surprised that it tasted slightly herbal, but then it warmed him from the inside out and he couldn’t help but smile.

“It is very nice, thank you,” he said, his ears tingling slightly.

They were out under the night sky for an hour or so, telling Tancred’s father about the start of the school year, and listening to his explanation of their plans for the first week of hols while Tom would be there. He was still warm, feeling quite cozy and relaxed, when they finally returned inside and headed their separate ways.

Once Tom was ready for bed and sliding under the blankets the voice spoke.

_That was really nice,_ it offered, sounding pleased. _I was worried at first, with how unsettled you seemed to be after meeting his mum, but otherwise you seem to be happy._

Tom nodded. “It was nice. Perhaps she’s just cold with strangers? I can understand that.”

_Maybe,_ the voice conceded, then changed the subject. _That was the first I’ve heard about the different ways of celebrating Christmas—or, well, celebrating that time of year, I guess. Of my two closest friends, one was a muggleborn who celebrated Christmas the muggle way, and the other was a pureblood who also did gifts, and a tree too, I think._

“I wonder if the Mulcibers will be doing anything in particular when I’m there next week,” he mused. “Then again, I’m still not entirely certain I made the right choice in accepting that invitation.”

_Maybe . . . you can tell Tancred you’ll check in with him each day, and send an owl? In case you’re worried?_

Tom pursed his lips as he thought. Was he being irrational? Or would _not_ having some sort of safety precaution be foolish? “I’ll think about it.”

Later that night, when he still couldn’t sleep, Tom was flipping through his advanced Charms texts looking for a spell that would allow him to send a message across a great distance, should he have an emergency.

The next few days passed rather quickly, as the two boys spent long hours completing their various assignments and essays while returning to their summer habit of spending a few hours outside each day. As they fell into a routine Tom saw smiles and ease returning to his friend’s demeanour and felt some of his own tension ebb away; the atmosphere had been uncomfortable when Tancred had obviously been unsettled.

By Monday their classwork was complete and they continued on their extra projects, and Tom brought up his concerns about Mulciber, couched rather vaguely.

“I don’t understand why you’re spending the week with him then, if it makes you uncomfortable,” was Tancred’s immediate response, punctuated by a frown.

Tom pursed his lips. “It’s part of an agreement. A slightly different one to the last,” he added, knowing the other boy would follow his meaning. “I want what I’ll get in return, I just don’t know enough about him to be fully comfortable with the visit. I don’t know what to expect. Are you familiar with his family, at all?”

Tancred sighed and leaned back in his chair. “Not particularly. I think the Averys are closer to the Mulcibers. I believe Nero lives with his mother? Somewhere in Kent, I think.”

“I could write Rayner and ask,” Tom said, “but—”

“But that can be a dangerous thing to send all the way across the country,” Tancred finished for him. “And I don’t think you want to be having that conversation in a Floo grate, either.” Then he sighed again. “Why didn’t you ask us about this at school?”

Tom worried his lip, a bit abashed. “I was still having second thoughts about going at all, in all honesty. I’d decided to go ahead with it because of the latest muggle news, in a roundabout way, but I—” Tom let out a sigh of his own. “I don’t know. I just hate thinking about all of that mess, even though I know that not thinking about it is not remotely productive.”

Tancred rubbed the back of his neck, then nodded. “I understand. Well, you mentioned a charm you wanted to try?”

“Yes, something that might let me get an urgent message out if, I don’t know, he ends up being a madman and I should have trusted my unease all along.”

Tancred gave him an amused look and then focused on the text that Tom slid over, and together they discussed the Protean Charm.

By Monday evening they’d determined the objects they were going to enchant, a pair of pendants that Tancred transfigured from some silverware, and much of Tuesday was spent practicing the charm until they finally successfully applied it that night. 

When Wednesday arrived and Tom emerged from his room he felt a different sort of energy in the air, and as he was making his way down to the ground floor he heard Mr Lestrange call out, “Tancred, how about you and Tom give Epona her gift this morning?”

The mystery of that request was soon revealed as Tancred led him to the mantle where they each cut a bundle of the tall grasses that were growing there with a quick flick of the silver blade of a sickle, and then ventured outside toward the stables.

“This is the horse offering you’d mentioned?” Tom asked.

Tancred nodded. “It’s meant to give a blessing of longevity to a family. It’s one of the practices that my family has always done.”

They each gave the bunches of plants to the two mares and stayed for several minutes before returning to the house. When they were at breakfast, Tancred’s father announced that he’d be out for most of the day retrieving a suitable trunk for them to light, and that they would need to be well-rested as they’d be up late that night.

When the man left, his friend turned to him and added, “You’ll want to brace yourself for a midnight feast as well.”

They spent the majority of the day holed up in the library. Tom wasn’t too sure what Tancred was working on, but he’d returned to his spellcrafting project that so far he’d managed to keep partially hidden from the voice. He was aware of the curious looks that the other boy was occasionally giving him, but he wanted this to be his. Well, his and John’s, once he figured it out and revealed the surprise to the entity.

At around mid-afternoon Tancred rose and told Tom he’d be taking a nap until later that evening, since they’d have a long night ahead of him. Tom considered doing the same for a few minutes but as he was about to put his work away he decided against it; naps always made him feel out of sorts, and though he’d probably be beyond tired later he didn’t want to ruin the experience due to nausea.

He was starting to regret that decision by eleven o’clock when his stomach was rumbling in hunger and his jaw was cracking into wide yawns, but then Tancred popped his head into the library to call him downstairs and he felt a flood of energy jolt him awake.

When he arrived he found that the seating near the hearth had been removed and instead there was an immense tree trunk, some portion of the roots still attached, sitting on the floor surrounded by four evenly-spaced cushions. Off to the side there were two tall bottles and a silver knife.

“Boys, there you are!” exclaimed Mr Lestrange as he swept over from the direction of the window. “Take a seat there, my wife will be joining us shortly. Now we were going to do black walnut as usual but she fancied a change this year. Behold this beautiful specimen of hornbeam,” he said grandly as he chose one of the cushions and sat down, his legs folded in front of him.

Tancred appeared to pale, and Tom filed that away to consider later; he didn’t want to miss anything due to being lost in his thoughts.

“Excellent, it appears we’re all ready to start,” Mrs Lestrange said as she too approached and took a seat opposite her husband. Following their example Tom took the seat facing the hearth while Tancred took the one facing him.

“Now, Tom, you are studying Ancient Runes at Hogwarts so I expect you to be familiar with this, to an extent. Each of us will choose a rune and engrave it on our side of the trunk, after which we will treat the wood with the oil and wine that I’ve set out here, and then at midnight we will set it alight in the fireplace, where it will burn through until the new year. Think carefully about the rune that you choose, as that is the boon that you will wish for yourself during the coming year. The burning of the log is meant as protection for the family; each day that it burns is another month that its magic will protect us.”

Tom nodded, then started to consider what he would choose.

“The three of us will carve our own first to give you some time to consider. But don’t overthink it; it should be a quality that you strive for, something that you feel,” the man continued, before he picked up the knife and started carving the first few strokes of his rune into the bark.

Mr Lestrange completed his in almost no time, the simple design of _Kenaz_ revealing that he was seeking knowledge and inspiration. Mrs Lestrange carved hers next, _Ansuz_ , which Tom recalled was typically used for insight and communication. After his parents were finished Tancred’s face scrunched up into an expression of resolve as he carved his, though Tom couldn’t see the rune that he selected from his angle. Curiously, Mrs Lestrange was giving her son a piercing look laden with unreadable meaning. Then, it was Tom’s turn.

Deliberating for a moment longer, he gave a small nod to himself and carved _Uruz_. He would need all of the strength and courage he could get to face the future, whether it was the following week, or the following year. Once he finished the last of his rune he returned the knife and found a pleased look on Mr Lestrange’s face.

“Excellent, and now. . . .”

The wine and oil were certainly a messy affair but by midnight the tree trunk was positioned in the fireplace and was being lit, the runes sparking and crackling, glowing with an odd light before they were obfuscated by the flames.

And as they made their way to a more formal dining room that Tom hadn’t seen before, he considered the rune that his friend had chosen, which he’d seen when they had transfered the large piece of wood. _Nauthiz_ , a rune often representing necessity, hardship, and delays.

With that thought in the back of his mind he couldn’t entirely submit to the atmosphere of festivity that he’d expected at their late night feast. And it certainly was a feast, with the centrepiece a roast boar, and more courses than he could count.

Somehow the conversation at the dinner table made its way around to the various families in their year, and how they were doing. And then Mrs Lestrange turned her dark gaze on Tom and asked, “And how about your family? I understand you do have some magical ancestry; what’s their story?”

She asked it so easily, lifting her glass of wine to take a casual sip after the question was asked, but Tom heard Tancred suck in a startled breath.

Well, Tom wasn’t surprised at his friend’s reaction. He hadn’t exactly shared his discovery with anyone else, beyond the voice.

“I uncovered some information at the end of the last year that leads me to strongly believe I am descended from the Gaunt family,” he replied, giving his friend a brief apologetic smile when he saw the boy’s surprised look.

But Mrs Lestrange reaction was curious. Her eyes seemed to harden further, and the edges of her mouth appeared to pinch slightly. “I see. How interesting. I wasn’t aware that their line was capable of continuing, given their rather unique situation.”

Tom felt something nervous, something worried, shifting around in the base of his skill. He tilted his head and asked, “What do you mean, madam?”

“My dear,” Mr Lestrange interjected. “I don’t think this is quite the discussion for the dinner table.”

“Darling, what’s the matter with discussing family, especially at this time of year?” she countered, smiling sharply. Then she turned her attention back to Tom. “I mean, of course, that the Gaunts were, pardon me for saying it so bluntly, savages. The last of a proud line reduced to squallor and madness. They didn’t do what they had to in the service of their family, and they were the ones to suffer for it.”

Tom felt a chill, partly from her unflinching words, but partly from the sight of his friend’s expression before Tancred had dropped his gaze, looking down toward his plate. He’d appeared ill.

Considering his words, he turned his attention back toward Mrs Lestrange. “Thank you for your words of wisdom, madam. I’m even more curious to meet them now, and eager to form insights of my own.”

Her responding smile was chilly, and there was no more conversation for the rest of the meal.

Back in his room in the early hours of the morning he found himself staring up at the ceiling, feeling a bit lost.

“It feels so anticlimactic, finding out after all of my searching that what’s left of my magical family deserves even more disdain than if I were entirely muggleborn.”

_She was unnecessarily cruel._ The tone was prickly, like a cranky cat.

Tom let out a heavy breath. “Yes, she was. I don’t know what purpose she had for being so blunt, though. Clearly her husband wasn’t comfortable. And Tancred looked mortified. Was she trying to anger me?” He bit his lip, considered, then shrugged. “I’m just disappointed, I think. In her, and possibly the Gaunts. But I wasn’t just saying it for the sake of it—I’m going to find them and draw my own conclusions.”

_Of course you are. I’m not sure how you’re going to find them, but I know you won’t give up on it._

He reflected over the rest of the events of the night and recalled the strange reaction from Tancred when the type of wood they would be burning had been revealed. His friend’s father had said it was hornbeam. Tom frowned, thinking back to all of those weeks they’d spend on symbolism and themes in Divination, sifting through his knowledge of the different types of wood. Hornbeam: something to do with a singular purpose, or obsession, and honour. He tried to remember if there was anything else that had stood out about that particular type of tree and couldn’t think of anything.

Tom finally closed his eyes, deciding he wasn’t going to resolve any of his confusion while he was so exhausted, and mumbled, “I hope she goes back to more or less ignoring me for the rest of the week.”

The voice seemed to sigh, then agreed. _I hope so too. Goodnight, Tom._

Thankfully his hopes were fruitful as he only saw Mrs Lestrange at dinner on his remaining days in their household, and conversation was kept to lighter topics, though she hardly unbent enough to smile. On Christmas day an owl arrived for him bearing the customary note from Alexius and a lovely pair of dragonhide boots that Tom didn’t even want to contemplate the price of, and he was surprised to see included in the bundle was a short note from Rayner informing him of an annual subscription to _The Oracle_. He found himself smiling at the thought of his friends, the warm presence of the voice buzzing happily in the back of his mind.

Tom spent most of the rest of his visit continuing to work on his spellcrafting project, though he still had yet to make a breakthrough. Then, almost too soon, it was Saturday and Tom was thanking the family for hosting him. After the farewells from his parents Tancred stepped forward to shake Tom’s hand, and said that he’d give his gift once they were back at Hogwarts. And then Tom was stepping into the green fire of the Floo, the flames larger than usual due to the still-burning stump of wood, and he was off to the Leaky Cauldron.

* * *

Tom had elected to wear his fine cloak, nice scarf, and new boots on his walk down Knockturn Alley in an effort to not appear poor, muggleborn, or otherwise deserving of suspicion on his mission. He initially bypassed Borgin and Burkes and instead made for The White Wyvern, striding confidently passed the hags that reached for him from beneath dripping awnings, and climbed up the narrow stairs to the pub.

It surprisingly seemed rather clean compared to the Hog’s Head, which prompted a small smirk to form on Tom’s lips, as he approached the bar. He did note that a few of the bar patrons appeared to be not exactly human, which he found mildly intriguing.

The woman tending the bar leered at him as he approached, the expression stretching a nasty-looking scar that mangled part of her face.

“Well _hello_ there deary. What can Madam Viscida do for such a pretty face?”

Tom held back a sneer of disgust; she looked like she was practically drooling. As that place in the back of his mind started to prickle in discomfort he replied, “Simply enquiring after the price of accommodations, madam.”

A shiver ran down his spine as he became aware of the many looks being sent his way, all of them far too curious.

“Three sickles per night, and fifteen for a week. Though if you agree to take your meals down here in the main room, arrangements can be made. . . .” She trailed off, her eyes bright with greed.

“Many thanks,” he said with a curt nod. “I have several obligations still, however I may return.” And at that he maintained what composure he could as he left, wanting to instead bolt from the place.

_Absolutely not._

Once outside he released the breath he’d been holding and made his way carefully farther down the alley. He agreed wholeheartedly with the voice. He could think of a few things that would have prompted those reactions and each one was worse than the last.

He noted a few signs posted in windows about space being let out, but given that it would be another six months before he’d need it he didn’t enter the buildings to ask about them further. Not seeing any other pub hidden among the shops he returned up the alley toward Borgin and Burkes.

When he’d stopped inside the shop briefly with Tancred during the summer he hadn’t seen much of the proprietor, as he’d remained at the counter after sharing a nod with Tancred. When Tom entered now though he found himself the subject of the man’s attention and so he nodded, feeling slightly tense, until the man flicked his eyes over his appearance and gave an answering nod.

“Good day, young sir. What can I help you with today?”

Tom approached the counter, noting that he seemed to be the only customer in the shop at present. “My friends have told me that you are a purveyor of the most interesting and unique artifacts. They had only the best things to say about the quality of your goods and your discreet service to your clients. At least, I believe it is this place,” and he made a show of looking around. “Have I entered the right shop?”

The man’s eyes had narrowed minutely but, seeming to come to a decision, he nodded. “Absolutely, young sir. You may call me Borgin, and you can be sure that your friends have directed you to the right place. Now, is there something in particular you are looking to acquire?”

Tom smirked a little, settling into the part he felt that he needed to play. “I’m not looking to acquire anything _today_ , however I find myself in possession of several items that might interest you, for which I have no use. How do you typically handle that type of arrangement?”

Borgin gave him a considering look. “Any item coming into this shop for appraisal is closely inspected for both material and magical worth, and then valued. It is your choice if you should then decide on direct compensation, or credit held to a future transation, or trade for one of my fine goods.”

So he did pay in gold, though Tom did suspect he would need to haggle. He reached into his expanded pocked and withdrew a handkerchief, and then used that to withdraw a malevolent-feeling necklace, laying it to rest gently on the counter. “What might you offer for this item, to start?”

Tom was right; there was much negotiating, with Borgin attempting to knock down the price for all sorts of trivialities like uneven polish, the colour choice among the gems, _lint_ , of all things, but finally they settled on a price—seven galleons!—and then did the same for two more pieces. Deciding not to push his luck he thanked the man, tucking the coins into his coin purse, and casually perused the shelves on his way out.

The voice seemed on edge but it wasn’t offering up any commentary so Tom made his way back to Diagon Alley and turned into the courtyard of the Leaky Cauldron, sparing only a glance toward the door leading to muggle London before he was spinning away in the Floo.

* * *

While Tancred’s home was warm, open, welcoming, the Mulciber residence was all stone, low ceilings, and cold draughts.

When he arrived he was greeted by a sullen-looking house-elf who snatched his trunk away without saying a word then vanished. A minute later the door to the windowless room opened and Mulciber entered.

“You came,” the older boy drawled, bearing a pleased smirk. “Follow me, I’ll introduce you to my mother and then we can get down to business.”

Alarm was the main sensation in the back of his mind but Tom was tentatively curious as he followed Mulciber through narrow corridors and up to a small sitting room, with windows that overlooked fields. There was a petite woman in one of the chairs, a thick knitted blanket folded over her lap, and she appeared to be reading a magazine.

“Mother, this is Riddle. Riddle, my mother. Call her Rhoda,” he said, waving a lazy arm and not moving from the doorway.

Tom blinked, somewhat started at the very casual introduction, but stepped forward and smiled as he took the woman’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, madam,” he greeted her, not sure if he was actually supposed to address her by her given name or if it was some odd test.

“Oh, no need for all that. Rhoda is just fine,” she said, all smiles. And while her son’s smile was one full of plots, and secrets, hers was kind.

“Of course. Rhoda. Please call me Tom,” he replied, feeling a bit flustered. Apparently it was obvious as he heard a snort from somewhere behind him.

“It’s wonderful to meet you, Tom. It’s so rare that I get a chance to meet Nero’s friends from school. You must be a good influence on him!” She gave him another wide smile, her eyes crinkling, and Tom honestly had no idea how to respond to that so he just gave her a small smile and retreated toward the smirking boy.

He was shortly led down another series of corridors, and was hopelessly lost. There weren’t even portraits, or decorations of any sort on the walls to identify as they made their way through the seeming maze.

And then finally they were stepping outside entirely, and behind him Tom saw that the house looked to be a tall rectangular block of stonework, topped by two chimneys, and adorned by only a handful of windows. And it was surrounded by fields of frosty, scraggly little shrubs and rolling hills.

“We’re going behind the house, just a bit farther,” he was told, and as they walked around the corner Tom saw what looked to be a small shed a hundred feet out.

The voice was feeling more and more unsettled as they walked, and Tom himself felt a bit of nervousness curl around his spine.

When they arrived at the shed Mulciber pushed the door open and Tom saw steps descending below ground, illuminated by suspended blue flames.

_What is this about. I don’t like this, Tom._

He had to agree. Not stepping through the doorway he met Mulciber’s eyes and asked, “What’s this all about? I’m not going down into a mysterious hole in the ground without some sort of explanation.”

The other boy’s smirk somehow widened, and Tom found himself gritting his teeth in irritation.

“You want to practice some rather interesting things on me when we return to school. I’m not entirely opposed to the idea, but I need some guarantees of my own that you have the discipline to be able to control yourself, and also to control the power that you clearly possess. We’re going to do some practice sessions of another sort here over the course of the next week.”

Tom’s eyes widened and he would have staggered backward had he not locked his knees. The voice had a similar spike in anxiety.

“Oh, don’t give me that look. I won’t be casting anything on you. And this is another thing as well—if you’re going to be mucking about in my mind, then I’ll need to have some assurances that you’re not going to be spilling any of my secrets—well, not if you don’t want me spilling yours.”

“What is down there,” he asked flatly.

Mulciber gave a lazy sort of shrug. “It’s just a workroom. Some furniture, some ritual materials, a small brewing corner—nothing terribly exciting. But it’s private, and neither of us wants to be up to anything odd inside the house.”

Tom was still frozen, trying to weigh his options, when the other boy gave him a sardonic smile and said, “Look, I’ll even go down there first. See?” And he turned his back toward Tom in a very deliberate motion, and proceeded to saunter down the stairs.

_I_ really _don’t like this._

Tom didn’t like it either. Mulciber was entirely too confident, entirely too smug, and whatever it was that he wanted to make Tom do in the workroom had to be pretty bad, given that the boy had been perfectly willing to allow the curses that had been cast over the past year—had encouraged them, in fact. He thought about the fact that he definitely didn’t know how to get back to the fireplace in order to Floo out, but then he raised a hand to where the flat back of the pendant was pressed against his chest. And he thought.

Then he remembered the Yule log that was still burning in the Lestranges’ hearth, and the _Uruz_ rune he’d carved into it, and took a breath, stepping into the shack and descending the steps.

_Tom. . . ._ It was nothing more than a whisper, a plea, but Tom kept moving forward.

At the base of the staircase was a small room with a dirt floor, appearing as Mulciber had described. The other boy was sitting in a chair, for once not lounging but instead leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped together. He gestured to another chair and Tom sat, tense.

“You have quite the repertoire of offensive and defensive spells at your disposal, not just for a fourth year, but in general,” Mulciber began and his tone held none of his usual casual airs. “But, I know that you are following the events of Grindelwald, and that you are someone who needs to be able to rely on himself. So, you need to be prepared for war.”

Tom blinked, not sure where this was going.

“The ministries on the Continent have authorised the use of typically-illegal spells by civilians in times of life-threatening danger, and with signs pointing to Grindelwald making his way here, there’s every likelihood that our own Ministry will pass similar laws. It’s in your best interests to be prepared for that, and to know that you are capable of casting those spells. They rely on a different mindset from the ones you’ve practiced so far, and so for this week I’m offering you a place to practice those when you’re not in a life-threatening situation.”

Tom swallowed, then spoke the first words that he managed to draw on. “What’s in it for you?”

Ah, the smirk had returned. Tom almost felt relieved at the familiarity. “Well, for one I am massively curious as to how far your power extends. I’m curious about how far you’ll push yourself before you’re stopped, whether you’re stopped by the limits of your magic or by expectations, or by fear. I know that between your particular ancestry—” here he paused, giving Tom a pointed look “—and your specific brand of determination you can be a powerful force in our world, and I want to be an ally when that happens.”

Tom gave him an incredulous stare. “You’re building me up because of my blood?”

“No.”

The flat tone of the response startled him. “But you just said—”

“People will notice you because you are the Heir of Slytherin. But people will rally to you if you carry that name, and if you also hold that power. And you clearly have power, which can be catastrophic if untrained. Now, at this point I don’t think you are in danger of losing control of your magic, you’re much too practiced for that. But if you continue to push yourself and wield all of the power that you can, then you could achieve anything.”

Tom once again didn’t know what to say. For a schoolmate to essentially say that he would want to ally himself with Tom just for the sake of being near him when he was more powerful, that made no sense at all to him. He could also sense so much coiled tension in the back of his mind he was starting to feel the building pressure of a headache.

“And what spells, exactly, did you want me to learn, to prove that I can do it, and because I might need them in war, and because you want leverage on me so that I keep your secrets when we move onto Legilimency?” he finally asked.

“The Unforgivables.”

And then there was just complete and utter silence from the voice, and a long moment later a ghastly wave of horror, of dread, of everything bad rose from the back of his mind and doused his insides with ice.

* * *

The rest of that week felt like an ongoing nightmare.

After that horrid revelation in the workroom Mulciber had seemed perfectly content to let Tom mull it over, and had led him back up to the house and shown him the quickest way to the dining room on the ground level, and to a guestroom on the first floor. Once the other boy had vanished Tom had set to work carving some tiny, hopefully imperceptible privacy runes not unlike those on his bed at Hogwarts, and finally curled up on the bed.

“John?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

The confusing mix of emotions had by that point boiled down to a single one: fear.

“Please, John, don’t hide from me. I need to be rational about this, and I need you to make sure that I’m not just talking myself into an early grave. Or Azkaban. Or into becoming a monster.”

He could feel the voice shifting around, as if it was trying to choose its words, or decide where to begin.

_What’s there to be rational about?_ it finally asked, the tone flat.

Tom bit his lip. “He did make some good points.”

_He knows they sounded like good points. He knows you’re smart. He’s counting on you using your own logic against yourself._

Tom could accept that there was some manipulation, but at the same time he agreed with what Mulciber had said. “The Grindelwald ideals are starting to surface in Britain. If we’re seeing his propaganda showing up in Hogwarts, then it’s elsewhere as well. And the stories in the _Prophet_ about disappearances, about strange magical ‘accidents,’ it’s not all a coincidence.”

_That’s true. That doesn’t mean that you need to kill someone to defend yourself. Or torture them. Or enslave their mind._

While Tom agreed on the case of torture, this wasn’t his first time thinking about the curses, as Merrythought had spent three weeks of their first term that year on solely that topic.

“I can think of ways to justify the Imperius,” he said softly. “In an ideal world, no, it’s terrible. But imagine I was taken prisoner—and with a name like Riddle who knows what would happen to me—but I have a chance to escape, and it won’t hurt anyone! I just need a guard to be briefly on my side. No, it’s not perfect and no, it’s not right but I’d rather know that I _could_ , if I was in that situation.”

There was silence, and then, _You’d kill someone?_

Tom closed his eyes, his heart thudding loudly against his ribcage. He thought about the collapsed brick buildings of London, the stories he’d heard about Fiendfyre in France, the curses and diseases that he knew from his classes at Hogwarts were completely and utterly debilitating, and incurable. “Sometimes, a swift and painless death can be a mercy,” he whispered.

The voice seemed to close itself off from him then. Tom could still sense that it was there, still anchored to him, that tiny presence at the base of his skull, but he could sense no emotion, no warmth.

But he understood, and didn’t blame the voice. It wasn’t a happy thought.

He spent Sunday in his room, only emerging to join Mulciber and his mother at meals, and tried to distract himself from his thoughts by continuing to work on his spellcrafting problem. But even that was lacking its joy, as the spot in the back of his mind remained quiet.

On Monday he met Mulciber for breakfast and told him he’d be open to returning to the workroom, and by midmorning they were back in that small subterranean space.

“I’m not casting the Cruciatus,” Tom told him the moment they sat down.

Mulciber just gave him a nod. “Fair enough. Which of the other two would you prefer to start with?”

And from there the week continued, the seconds ticking by slowly, as the other boy transfigured rocks into rats and had him practice ordering them to perform various increasingly-elaborate actions. And once the other boy declared the Imperius Curse to be adequately mastered, at least without using a human practice target, they move on to the Killing Curse.

Tom was shaking by the end of the first session, and the rest of the week went downhill from there.

By the Friday afternoon he was certain he would be seeing dead rats in his nightmares for the rest of his life, and declared in no uncertain terms that he was finished ‘practicing’ anything else until they returned to Hogwarts, and Mulciber agreed easily enough. The other boy also confirmed that they would start with Legilimency whenever Tom wished.

He was grateful at least that Mulciber had stopped acting so irritating as the week had progressed.

Finally, Sunday arrived and feeling like a nervous wreck, wishing the voice would _understand_ , would _just talk to him_ , he Flooed to the platform with Mulciber and secured a compartment on the train after waving off the older boy. When Tancred arrived several minutes later looking drawn and pale the way that Tom felt, he realised that he hadn’t been the only one with a poor end to the hols.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning:**
> 
> This chapter, along with many of the following chapters, contains non-graphic references to WWII. These references are based on factual records from the time, including dates, locations, events. I have not manufactured or exaggerated these events.
> 
> At no point will the references to the atrocities of WWII be graphic, however they may be difficult to read about.
> 
> This chapter also marks the beginning of references to the Holocaust.

Tancred tucked his trunk away and took the seat across from Tom, giving him a pained smile. “How was your week with Mulciber?”

Tom grimaced. “It wasn’t enjoyable, but I wasn’t in danger either, so I suppose that’s something positive,” he said drily, his hand briefly rising to touch where the pendant was sitting under his robes. “How was the rest of your break?”

“Not great,” the other boy said, glancing away. He was just opening his mouth to say something else when the compartment door slid open and Rayner entered; when Tom looked back toward Tancred his mouth was clamped shut.

“Morning,” Rayner greeted both of them, before dropping into a seat next to Tom. “Iceland is miserable this time of year, in case you were wondering.”

“Iceland? Was your father speaking at another conference?” Tom asked.

“If only, then we might have been indoors. No, the Trading Standards department at the Ministry hired him on as a consultant and sent him out there since they have a brewing partnership with Kópavogur. And their researchers were in the middle of the highlands. So we were in huts, surrounded by snow, with winds so strong you could hardly even stand outside.”

Tom hummed, curious. With Iceland located farther north than even Hogwarts, he wondered if Rayner had seen any aurora while he was there. They’d been fortunate on a handful of winter nights to see the lights in Astronomy class and each time Tom was struck speechless by their otherworldly beauty.

The compartment door slid open again and Rhys stumbled in. “No Alex,” he said, forgoing any greeting. “His face is stuck to Fawley’s, so he’s probably forgotten that we exist again.” And then he kicked the door shut behind him and threw himself at a seat next to Tancred.

The journey up to Hogwarts was quieter than usual, as each boy seemed to be glum in his own way. Tom idly sketched out some project notes but mostly just let his gaze follow the passage of the countryside outside of the train.

They finally spotted Alexius when he jumped out of a carriage ahead of them at the front doors of the castle and strolled over, a wide grin on his flushed face. “There you all are! Why, so many long faces. Rhys, any trouble with family this year?” That conversation took them down to the dungeons, and then up to the Great Hall for the feast some time later.

After dinner Tom went directly to the dormitory, wanting to try once again to talk to John, and wasn’t entirely surprised to see that Tancred followed him there while the rest of the boys found comfortable seats in the common room. When the door shut behind them he saw his friend immediately proceed to his trunk, then pull out a package.

“Happy Christmas,” he said, offering it to Tom. And then he took a seat on his bed and looked at his hands, appearing to wait.

Tom walked over to his own bed to sit down and carefully unwrapped what was revealed to be a beautiful set of scopes, much nicer than the second hand ones he’d bought before first year, all glistening in polished black and brass with a multitude of knobs along one side.

“It has more precise adjustments for distance, brightness, hue, and a few other specifications than yours. And it can save up to a dozen captured impressions for reviewing later,” Tancred explained, still not looking his way.

Tom ran a hand reverently over the gift. “I—thank you. This is wonderful,” he said quietly. A minute later he set it aside carefully on his bedside table. “Tancred, something is clearly upsetting you. Do you feel comfortable telling me?”

“I apologize for my mother,” he said stiffly. “I don’t think I’ve heard her so callous before.”

Tom shook his head. “It’s not your fault. Did you know, those things she said about the Gaunts?”

The other boy nodded once. “Yes. We don’t—That family isn’t spoken of in most circles. Yes, they’re seen as pure, and all that, but no one’s really been in contact with the family in years. Word was for the longest time that they ended up as squibs, and that’s why they more or less vanished. I—I didn’t know,” he finished, sounding hurt.

Tom sighed, leaning back against a bedpost. “I know, and I guess I could have asked you all what you knew of them. I’d just put it to the back of my mind, honestly, since I hadn’t found anything in the library about what happened to the Gaunts, and hadn’t figured out what I wanted to do next about tracking them down.”

Tancred nodded, then clasped his hands together. “That’s not all, though. My mother wanted me to let you know that we won’t be able to host you in the summer.”

Tom swallowed. “Oh?”

“She didn’t say the nicest things.” Tancred looked up, briefly met Tom’s gaze, then his eyes flicked away toward the door. “She called you a bad influence on me. A . . . distraction.”

And somehow it was that statement that awoke the voice in the back of Tom’s mind, after it had remained dormant for a week. It didn’t speak, but Tom felt the shiver of awareness, the slight prickle as it took note of what was being said. He hoped it didn’t hide again before they had a chance to talk.

“A bad influence? How? Distracting you from what?” he asked his friend, feeling a bit baffled.

Tancred only shook his head as his face tightened. “I won’t let her stop us being friends, but you’ll want to secure alternate arrangements for next summer. And I don’t expect you’ll be welcome again over holiday breaks.”

There was a sour taste in Tom’s mouth, even as he tried and failed to understand what was precipitating this animosity. So he simply replied, “Thank you for letting me know. If nothing else, I have been able to secure enough coin to stay in Hogsmeade again, for the whole summer this time.” He left it unsaid how he’d acquired the funds, or his brief trip to and hasty retreat from The White Wyvern; his friend didn’t even appear curious.

There didn’t appear to be much else to say and his friend left the dorm a minute later. Tom promptly shut the curtains and lay back on the bed.

“John? We have things we need to talk about. Please.”

Slowly, almost reluctantly, the voice seemed to unfold itself from that small space and Tom felt its sense of awareness grow.

_I guess we should talk_ , it said stiltedly.

And now that he finally had the voice’s attention, Tom didn’t know where to begin. After an agonizing silence, the voice spoke again.

_I’m . . . sorry to hear about the Lestranges. That’s not fair._

Tom released a breath. “Thank you. I don’t know what to think, but at least I know now, and it wasn’t sprung on me in June.”

There was another silence, during which Tom tried to think of how to address the proverbial elephant in the room.

_Thank you for not practicing the Cruciatus._

Tom grimaced instinctively, then he bit his lip. “But you’re also not happy about the others.”

There was a short hesitation, then, _No._

“I’m not either,” he admitted quietly. “It was difficult. Which, I think is a good thing. But—if it comes to that—” He swallowed. “I just feel safer knowing as much as I can, even if it’s dangerous.”

He could feel the voice shifting around, clearly weighing its next words. When it finally spoke it was in a slow, careful voice. _You asked me to question your reasons, once. You asked me to stop you if I didn’t think you were doing things for the right reasons._

Tom’s eyes immediately widened and he felt his unease turn to guilt. But as he opened his mouth to apologise for not giving it more consideration, when the voice had been clearly upset by things during the break, it was speaking again.

_I understand your reasons. Using only logic, they make sense. I just worry that one day, the logic will make sense for a truly unforgivable act. And I don’t want you to reach that point without even realising it. I don’t want you to reach that point at all._

Tom closed his eyes. He could sense the hint of fear, and he hated the thought that the entity, his close and trusted confidant, might be afraid of _him_.

“You know how it made me feel,” he whispered. “You know how awful it was. And they were rats. To do that to a person—” He choked, and had to take a few breaths.

“At Wool’s, the year before I started at Hogwarts, I had a fight with an older boy, Billy. He had a rabbit, and wouldn’t let anyone else care for her, and kept her locked up in his wardrobe most of the time. He thought I was just jealous and trying to steal her, and pushed me down the stairs.”

Tom could feel his fingers digging into the blankets as he remembered his fury at the stupid boy who had been torturing the animal.

“So I made him scared. I was good at making the others feel scared if they upset me, so I made him scared of his rabbit so that maybe he’d let someone else take care of her, even if it wasn’t me. I didn’t know that he’d get so scared that he’d hang her from the rafters.”

He felt nausea from that spot in his mind, though it was distant compared to his own. “Mrs Cole assumed I’d done it and didn’t let me leave the grounds for three months, and every night I’d have nightmares of its dead, staring eyes.”

And he opened his eyes again, since talking about that event had called up the image of the rabbit, and then all of those rats from the previous week, burning the insides of his eyelids. “I don’t want _any_ death, John. Please, believe me.”

And then there was a sort of sadness, simple, uncomplicated, as the voice replied, _I’m trying to._

* * *

Things slowly improved between Tom and the voice after that, though they still felt hesitant, as if part of their closeness had been separated by a wedge that was the week spent at the Mulcibers’.

Classes were soon underway again, and they were shortly diving into a focus on cursed items in Defence class, and an introduction to designing rune structures in Tofty’s class. Tom figured that the former would be useful for understanding the sorts of items he was selling to Borgin, if indeed he continued that practice, while the latter was what he’d been waiting on in order to continue with his Pensieve project.

Now that it was winter their Divination class had moved onto astrology, and Visconti took them through the various ways that constellations, orbits, and other celestial phenomena could be used to measure omens. They would apparently be continuing their earlier lessons on symbolism, and applying it to the topic.

It wasn’t until the end of the week that Tom managed to take the time to track down Stalk, wanting to catch up on anything that had transpired while he’d been away from the castle.

“Welcome back, Mr Riddle,” the professor greeted him as he entered the classroom. “Would you like the summary?”

“Yes please, sir.”

“Very well. There have been many sea battles in Europe and in the Pacific. Japan has taken Hong Kong.”

Tom worried his lip, accepting the stack of papers, and waited.

“There was also a particular article in _The Scotsman_ that referred to a publication from last year that I wasn’t aware of. I was able to purchase a copy, however its contents are disturbing.” The man gave Tom a stern look. “I will be blunt. The contents speak of an ongoing genocide against a people.”

Tom opened and closed his mouth a few times, as the spot in the back of his mind recoiled in dread. Finally, he asked, “A publication, sir?”

Stalk sighed and ran a hand over his scalp. “It is well over two hundred pages of documentation describing the subjugation of the Jewish people of Poland. To horrific ends.” His eyes were tense, the set of his mouth even more so. “I would much prefer to give you a copy of the overview that is attached, rather than the entire booklet.”

Tom nodded, already fairly concerned. If this professor, one who had repeated multiple times that he wasn’t the type to censor information, was this hesitant about showing Tom the book in its entirety. . . .

“That will be fine, sir.”

Stalk nodded and made a duplicate, handing it over with obvious reluctance. Tom saw that it was still a fairly thick bundle of pages, probably at least fifty, despite only being an overview.

After slipping out of the classroom he climbed up to the seventh floor to find the privacy of the Room, then looked down at the booklet.

> REPUBLIC OF POLAND  
>  _Ministry of Foreign Affairs_
> 
> —
> 
> **GERMAN**   
>  **OCCUPATION**   
>  **OF POLAND**

  
Just reading the table of contents was horrific. Phrases like ‘Murders and Collective Massacres,’ ‘Arbitrary Arrests,’ ‘Modern Slavery,’ and ‘Concentration Camps’ leapt from the page, and he felt bile rising in his throat. He put the pages down and stared at the wall, blinking hard.

_You don’t have to read it_ , the voice offered, sounding cautious. _I can . . . summarise, if you prefer._

It took Tom a few moments to find his voice. Knowing that this was the first time the entity had openly offered information about the war, unprompted, he asked, “Will I want to read this?”

_Based on the list of headings, and the fact that it’s 55 pages, I—I hope that you don’t want to. It’s horrible. People will_ never _forget it._

Tom swallowed, then stowed the papers away. “Please tell me.”

And so, for the next stretch of time the voice told him of the Holocaust, and the concentration camps, and the massacres, and the torture and killing and dehumanisation of those who didn’t conform to Nazi ideals, horrors that would continue for another several years.

Tom didn’t attend his club meetings that Saturday, nor did he meet with Mulciber that Sunday, too trapped in his thoughts about just how far humanity could fall to be able to face those social engagements.

A few days later headlines announced that a new rash of blitz attacks had begun over Liverpool, and that was enough to drag Tom back out of his grim mood and force him to focus all of his attention on his studies.

He was in the common room adding some final touches to a Potions essay when Rayner caught his attention.

“My father confirmed that we’ll be travelling for the entire summer,” he began, his tone a bit hesitant.

Tom waved a hand. “Don’t worry about hosting me, you already said you’d likely be travelling.”

But Rayner shook his head. “No, that’s not what I’m getting at. We’ll be travelling a lot, and other than one or two consulting stops my father will be meeting with the International Confederation of Wizards. I plan on going along to some of the dinners anyway, since it’ll be good to gain some contacts, but if you wanted . . . I could ask any questions you might have? For your goals,” he clarified, glancing around.

Tom considered. International contacts would be good. An insight into how the international body dealt with matters such as a magical war, or a muggle war, or a genocide. . . .

He bit his lip, thinking of that duplicated booklet that was sitting in his trunk. “Let’s go to the dorm,” he finally said, and collected his things from the table. As they were crossing the common room a few minutes later Rhys and Tancred entered, having presumably just finished with their Muggle Studies class, and followed them.

Once the dormitory door was shut behind them Tom retrieved the booklet from his trunk and wordlessly handed it to Tancred while he turned to Rayner. “I wouldn’t mind getting a better understanding of when the confederation gets involved in a matter, versus letting the local ministry handle things their own way,” he said first, then filtered through his other thoughts. “And the process for having something brought before the ICW. And really, if there are any delegates from other countries who don’t mind having their information passed along to a student who’s interested in what they do, and I wouldn’t say no to that.”

Rayner was nodding along at each of his requests. “I might be able to sit in on a session too, we’ll see. At the very least I should be able to attend the particular committee meetings that my father is going to be attending. I know one of them is with the Educational Office. I’m not sure—” He was interrupted by a sound off to the side and looked over.

Tancred was still flipping through the pages, though he looked ill, and was making intermittent choking sounds deep in his throat.

Then he snapped the booklet shut and handed it back to Tom.

“That’s happening now?” he asked. Tom nodded. Tancred shut his eyes, let out a long, pained sigh, then opened them again.

Rhys had been following Tom’s discussion with Rayner and now was looking at the other boy, confusion evident. “What’s going on?”

“This can’t leave this room,” Tancred said. “If Meliflua were to catch wind of this. . . .”

Tom swallowed. That would be bad. He sat back on his bed while his friend relayed the contents of the document, though not in detail, thankfully, and he noted that partway through Rayner had started to jot down notes.

“I’ll see if there’s a way I can find out what’s being done about this, and if there’s a delegate there from Poland, even better,” he said, folding up the parchment and tucking it away in his trunk once the information had been relayed.

“I’m not sure what I can do to help,” Rhys said, looking glum. “I feel like as vast as my family is, we’re really only in Britain and France, and mostly we just excel at being loud.”

Tancred appeared to be deep in thought. After a minute he looked up at Rhys. “You have family that studied at Durmstrang, don’t you?”

The smaller boy grimaced but then nodded. “A distant cousin is still there, I think. It’ll probably take me the rest of the school year just to open a correspondence with her since we haven’t spoken in years, but I’ll see what I can get out of her about Germany and Poland. Maybe she’ll give the name of someone I can talk to.”

Tancred then looked Tom’s way. “My family’s reach doesn’t extend that far east, unfortunately. If I think of something else I will let you know. Rayner, I can work with you to come up with any other angles you can use when you’re with the ICW members so that we don’t miss any opportunities.”

The boys were all nodding, and Tom felt a warmth filling him, in spite of the morose topic. He pursed his lips. “Thank you all. Really, I mean that.”

“Of course. We said that we’re with you. And you’ve done plenty for us, My Lord,” Rayner said, giving him a direct look.

There was a pang of discomfort from the voice, but it was muted by the hope that was emanating from that part of his mind. Tom felt a small smile form on his lips as he looked at his friends.

* * *

By the end of January Tom had started to join Mulciber again in their practice sessions, and had taken the next step toward learning Legilimency. The older boy was apparently an Occlumens of at least some talent, as Tom wasn’t able to glean anything from him, although he was able to recognise the difference between being immediately ejected and remaining on the exterior of the shielding barriers.

February brought news of soap rationing, and a day later a flurry of activity in the Slytherin common room.

Tom was sitting at one of the larger tables working on a Charms essay on Saturday morning, Tancred and Alexius nearby similarly working on assignments, when Rhys raced in still wearing his Quidditch gear, red-faced and out of breath.

“Wolves!” he cried, and oblivious to the startled students around the room he staggered over to their table and slumped into a seat.

As Tom opened his mouth to ask what was going on the common room entrance opened again and the rest of the team piled in, Buchanan stomping off in the direction of the dormitories, swinging her bat moodily against the stone wall as she passed, while Mulciber caught sight of their group and joined them.

“What about wolves?” Alexius asked, in the same morose tone he’d maintained ever since he and Fawley had apparently ended their . . . relationship a week prior.

“Four of them! Right there, next to the pitch!”

“There aren’t any wolves in Britain,” Tom said, then recalled when he’d said much the same thing in the autumn. He frowned.

“As odd as this one is,” Mulciber said before shoving Rhys playfully, causing the smaller boy to scowl, “it’s true. They were there, clear as day, watching us practice.”

Rhys then gasped dramatically. “What if—what if they weren’t wolves! What if they were _werewolves?_ ”

Tom set down his quill. “Werewolves,” he repeated flatly. “Your practice started at nine. It was daylight out. Besides, the full moon was last Sunday, Kepler mentioned it class.”

“They were definitely there,” Mulciber said, though he was tapping his finger against his chin, apparently lost in thought. “Maybe I can bring it up at the next prefect meeting, see if anyone else has seen anything. Even if there are wolves here they shouldn’t be wandering so far from the forest.”

“And they were just watching you play Quidditch?” Tom asked skeptically.

Mulciber shrugged while Rhys nodded.

Tom just shook his head in bemusement, and returned to his essay.

By mid-February the wolves had apparently been seen out and about on the grounds by more students, and there always seemed to be hushed voices nearby sharing stories about the creatures. They’d been found watching the Hufflepuff Quidditch team early one morning, and had also been caught near Ogg’s hut on multiple occasions. Tom even heard the Ingram twins sharing a tale of two of the wolves supposedly playing in the icy waters at the edge of the lake, wrestling with a long branch.

It wasn’t until the following month, while Tom was reading a tiny story in the _Prophet_ about a town in the South East going missing, that Mulciber joined their group at breakfast and said simply, “Wolf update.”

Tom glanced over and saw a secret sort of smirk playing at the corner of the boy’s mouth. “Here?”

He shook his head. “Catch you all downstairs after classes finish,” he drawled, then rose and sauntered over to sit in his usual spot.

Tom traded a look with his dorm mates, seeing anticipation displayed on all of their faces. He also saw Buchanan casting a speculative look over at their group, though she sneered and turned away when she caught Alexius’s eye by accident.

Later that day, once they’d all returned from Potions, they claimed a group of chairs near the fire.

“So,” began Mulciber, “I’ve been asking around since that Quidditch practice and a few of the other prefects had reported odd wolf sightings before, but were told not to worry about it.”

Tom frowned but refrained from asking anything in the pause, knowing that the other boy loved to build up dramatic tension.

“Our last few prefect meetings had Murray, Kettleburn, and Tofty present, and they didn’t seem to know anything and just told us that Dippet had everything under control. Slughorn said pretty much the same thing when I mentioned it to him. But,” and then he paused, his smug grin shifting into something more unreadable, “Dumbledore was at our meeting last night.”

Tancred and Rayner exchanged a glance then both looked toward Tom, probably due to his own ongoing issues with the man.

“I managed to get the other prefects equally _enthusiastic_ with their questions and finally he gave us some answers. It seems that a student brought lupine-born wolf cubs onto school grounds and was keeping them in his dormitory.”

The movements of a spider could have been heard in that instant, silence had fallen so suddenly and so harshly.

“ _What!?_ ” exclaimed Rhys in alarm, while the rest of the group stared.

“Oh, but don’t worry about it,” Mulciber continued, waving a lazy hand. “He’s a _good_ boy who just made an _honest mistake_.”

_Oh,_ offered the voice, sounding conflicted.

Tom cleared his throat. “I’m not taking Creatures, and while I can take a guess at what a lupine-born wolf might be. . . .”

“Wolves born of two werewolf parents who were shifted at the time of conception, incredibly rare for obvious reasons,” Alexius intoned, appearing quite disturbed. “And he was keeping them in his _dorm?_ ”

“ _Four_ of them!?” Rhys asked, his voice rising.

“Five,” Mulciber corrected, then his mouth slanted sideways. “One of them apparently doesn’t like Quidditch.”

“Why is he even still here?” Rayner demanded, then added, “Or did we just not hear about the expulsion?”

Mulciber shook his head. “I’ll lose my appointment or worse if it comes out that I’ve told anyone who the student is, but no, he wasn’t expelled. Apparently he has ‘learned his lesson,’ and is ‘very, very sorry,’” he scoffed.

Tom had sent out a thread of Legilimency during the discussion, simply to practice sensing the inherent truth in Mulciber’s tale, and at that moment he felt a slight nudge of resistance before the older boy sent him a secret smirk, having evidently noticed.

But other than the intentional prod to show that he was aware of Tom’s peeking, he had shown no signs of deception.

Which meant, as Tom wasn’t foolish enough to ignore the signs, Dumbledore had meddled and protected a student from something so absurdly dangerous it was laughable. And the student was likely in Gryffindor, given the fact that the other members of staff didn’t seem to know any details.

And then Tom recalled that very tall boy he’d seen when he had been on his Alcott mission.

“You said the student was caught with cubs. The wolves that you’ve seen aren’t cubs though, right? So he must have been caught some time ago?”

Mulciber shrugged. “He didn’t say. Honestly he seemed a bit annoyed that we were still asking questions after he told us not to worry about it.”

“Do these types of wolves carry the disease? If they bite someone, is there a danger of them being infected with lycanthropy?” Tom asked.

Alexius furrowed his brow in thought but then shook his head. “They shouldn’t.”

“Where does a student even _find_ creatures like that?” Rayner asked, and no one had an answer for him.

Despite the location they’d chosen to have that conversation Tom didn’t hear any other Slytherins discussing the revelation that a student had brought the wolves onto school grounds. And, offering some slight reassurance, once the Easter break had arrived Dippet could be seen walking the length of the border of the Forbidden Forest, casting.

On the first day of the hols Tancred sat down with Tom as he worked through his assignments and told him, “I heard back from some places I’d written in Knockturn Alley.”

Tom looked up, surprised. “Rayner said he’d contacted some people in the autumn but that they couldn’t confirm anything.”

“That’s true, for the type of work he asked about,” Tancred agreed. “No shop will want you in the storefront, in case any inspectors from the Ministry come through. But there are some owl-order businesses that have the space to put you up, which would afford an excuse should they have anyone from the Ministry sniffing about.”

_Be careful,_ the voice suddenly said.

“What type of places?” he asked, slowly. “I went into The White Wyvern once briefly and saw plenty of indications of the type of ‘work’ that I very much want to stay away from.”

Tancred was giving him an appalled look. “Definitely not that kind of work! Tom—” He shook himself, then continued, “Tom, this would be work like preparing ingredients for an owl-order apothecary, sorting incoming order forms for ritual supplies, that sort of thing.” And then he blinked a few times and added, “And definitely don’t stay at the Wyvern. That’s just asking for trouble.”

Tom relaxed slightly, but he still didn’t dismiss the voice’s plea for caution. “How much do you trust these contacts?”

“Well enough. The apothecary is affiliated with Mulpepper’s, and I know that Avery contacted them as well but I think they turned him down since his father’s known to consult for the Ministry now, and they don’t want extra attention. But they are fair with their prices, and their quality has always been as good as if not better than Slug & Jiggers. I’d assume it’s a filthy job, but they wouldn’t have lasted as long as they have in the potions trade if they were involved in underhanded dealings in a place like Knockturn. Any shop in that alley is automatically under more scrutiny due to the reputation.”

Tom nodded; he supposed that was a fair point.

“And Ye Olde runs a owl-order business that’s unofficially tied to Cobb & Webb’s. They’re very strict about only selling to those who are of age, and depending on the items the buyers need to have the proper paperwork.”

“Then why would they be willing to hire me on?” Tom asked.

“The building itself is owned by my mother’s family,” Tancred replied, looking a bit uncomfortable.

Tom sighed. “While I appreciate you looking into this for me, I’m not sure I should take up an offer that could put you into even more trouble with her.” Then he bit his lip and added, “And if the apothecary job might put Rayner in an uncomfortable position too, that might not be the wisest either.”

Tancred pursed his lips, appearing frustrated. “And if we pretend that I hadn’t told you those minor details?”

Tom huffed. “Don’t. I appreciate your honesty and openness.”

His friend gave him a short nod. “I asked a few others, but they were either already letting out their extra space, or they were currently in the middle of permit approvals with the Ministry and didn’t want to risk things.”

“Don’t worry about it. Thank you, really,” Tom told him. “I will think about it.”

Tancred passed over a few letters, and Tom tucked them away safely in his journal.

At the end of the break Tom finally made headway in his on-and-off research into soul magic. Completely by accident, he had found an ancient looking leather bound tome wedged behind a section of books about blood rituals. He had idly flipped through, curious what the ‘darkest arts’ mentioned in the book’s title referred to, then practically stopped breathing as the pages fell open on an entry about Horcruxes.

A vessel for his soul.

Like a phylactery, but _better_.

Hardly believing his luck he read through everything he could on the subject, finding that the book even contained detailed instructions on how to create such an item, though as he reached the portion that described the requirements his hands started to shake.

He set the book down, his heart beating fast. It would cost a death. It would cost a _murder_.

Tom could feel the voice coiled tightly at the back of his mind, tense, nervous, watching. Tom slowly slid the tome back into its hidden spot and left the Restricted Section, and made his way to the Room.

A Horcrux. That was it.

Except that it couldn’t be.

Once he was sitting on his customary pile of cushions in the middle of the floor he spoke. “I can’t do that. That is too far. I won’t—I can’t take someone’s life for my own selfish benefit. That’s too far. Much too far.”

The voice remained tense. _Are you sure?_

Tom didn’t even hesitate before nodding. “What right do I have to decide who lives and who dies? What makes my life any more valuable than someone else’s? I can’t imagine—I suppose self-defence? But even then, I’m not going to try to _kill_ a person.”

He took a few breaths, wrangling his thoughts. “I know we talked about death at Mulciber’s, and about mercy, but—” He shook his head. Somehow, it hadn’t seemed quite this vividly real until he read those words in _Secrets of the Darkest Art._

_So what will you do?_

“I don’t know. I don’t even want to know about what other methods might exist, at this point. I didn’t think things could be worse than phylacteries.” And then he had the sudden thought that maybe Dumbledore had been right to warn him about his research, if he knew the type of knowledge that was stored in the library.

“I’ll set it aside for now. I’ll make sure I’m not staying anywhere non-magical, and I’ll focus on other ways of defending myself. I’ll keep working on nonverbal casting. I’ll try, I don’t know, wandless casting in case I’m disarmed.”

And the voice seemed to relax a bit more at that declaration, and over the following weeks it began once again to offer encouraging comments, and supportive warmth, though Tom noted it was still not as frequent as it had been prior to the Christmas break.

True to his word Tom focused harder than ever on his various studies, and both Tancred and Rayner started to join him for nonverbal casting practice. His skill in Legilimency was developing slowly, and while Mulciber still hadn’t pronounced Tom ready to actually delve into his mind, Tom was finding it easier with each session to detect lies and evasions in a person’s eyes.

The end of April brought news of blitz attacks in Bath, and that prompted Tom to dismiss any remaining hesitation and write a letter to what remained of the Gaunt family.

After asking his friends, he had not been able to learn any names of particular family members other than his own middle name, or even what part of the country the family lived in, so he settled on an address of ‘Marvolo Gaunt,’ and wrote a short letter inquiring after him, and informing him he’d be interested to meet. He didn’t include his suspicions that he was related, but hoped that he would receive at least a partially favourable response.

Weeks passed with no response, nor did the school owl return him the letter undelivered.

In May he finished designing his Pensieve rune structure, after spending weeks recalibrating it and quadruple-checking his work, and finally applied it to his journal. And when he tested it by extracting a memory of him flying above the lake at Tancred’s home from the previous summer, and then pressed the tip of his wand against the corner of the page that was showing, he found himself within the memory, watching as his past self skimmed the surface of the water, smiling widely.

He felt the heady sense of accomplishment then, and the blooming warmth of pride from that spot at the back of his mind.

With that project completed he began storing memories of important class lectures, noteworthy conversations, and other important records inside the journal, figuring them to be more reliable than his written notes, so that the information could be preserved longer and ultimately easier to retrieve in future. And that made revising for that year’s exams a mere trifle.

When he’d started on the Pensieve project Tom had had the idea of sitting within a memory and seeing if the voice could join him, so that he could finally ‘meet’ the entity, face to face. But as their companionship was still a bit unsettled after the challenging start to the year, Tom held off on making the request, or offer. He didn’t want to force the issue, and he knew quite well that the voice hadn’t yet completely returned to its former level of comfort.

And so with that project behind him he turned his efforts back to his studies, and to the summer.

At the beginning of June there was news that the Ministry was finally taking action, or making a show of taking action, at least, as they announced a joint committee with some of the other European nations, one which would evaluate the current efforts against Grindelwald, review additional security measures that could be established, and negotiate the support that Britain would be offering.

It was something.

The update on Grindelwald prompted Tom to follow up with Dippet on that year’s request, hoping that with this update from the Ministry he might be permitted to stay at the castle. He wasn’t too surprised however, and therefore not too disappointed, when his request was once again denied.

Following that confirmation Tom made another visit to the Room to retrieve cursed items for Borgin, and had to admit that it was time he made a decision about the summer.

“John, I could use your insight,” he said one night as he was tucked away in bed, his curtains closed.

_About the summer?_

“Yes. I want to be productive, and I liked the sound of that job for the ritual supplies company, but the thought of it makes me nervous.” And it did; even without the building being affiliated with Mrs Lestrange, the thought of working illegally on Knockturn Alley made the hairs on his arms stand on end.

_You know that I don’t like the idea of you working there. What other options were you considering?_

“Alexius wasn’t able to convince his father to let me stay, or visit, which doesn’t surprise me. I have enough saved for the Hog’s Head, but that’s quite a lot of gold to spend while I’m not earning anything.”

_You did make a decent bit during Christmas. You’d still have emergency funds left over._

Tom smiled. “You’re not saying it in so many words but it sounds like you prefer the Hogsmeade option.”

_Absolutely,_ the voice answered immediately and emphatically.

“Very well. I’ll take the train to London—which is daft, by the way—and then Floo back up here. And then I’ll find an opportunity to return to London to sell off some more items sometime during the summer. Maybe when I go there anyway to buy my new school things,” he added, consideringly.

_It might be best to take care of that before the book lists go out. I don’t think you should be seen doing that type of business when other students might be around._

Tom nodded at the point. Things weren’t ideal, but they were starting to come together. And perhaps he’d make progress on some of his projects during the summer while he had nothing better to do.

_Thank you,_ the voice spoke into the silence, sounding slightly uncomfortable. When Tom furrowed his brow in confusion it continued. _Thank you for listening to my concerns. It is . . . reassuring, that you care._

And Tom didn’t quite know what to say to that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The booklet given to Tom is _The Polish White Book, Vol. 3: German Occupation of Poland. Extract of Note Addressed to The Allied and Neutral Powers._ It was a 240-page report published in 1941 though not widely distributed or reported on in Britain. It contained 180 appendices with lists, names, dates, and circumstances of Nazi brutality. Included was documentation of the locations of Nazi ghettos, and many of the extermination methods being used. At the time of publication there were 2 million Polish Jews still hoping for an international rescue.
> 
> The overview referenced in this chapter was 55 pages written by August Zaleski, the Minister of Foreign Affairs for the then-exiled Polish government. It is a summary of document as a whole, as concise as it can be while still addressing all of the topics at hand, and on its own is a painful read.
> 
> As of the time that I’ve posted this chapter, a copy of the publication in its entirety can be accessed on Archive.org.


	17. Chapter 17

Alexius had told their group to go on ahead and find a compartment so Tom and the rest of his dorm mates chose themselves a carriage, a few of them grumbling when Mulciber invited himself along at the last moment, and rode up to the station.

Thankfully the older boy sauntered off when they climbed onto the train; Tom was looking forward to a whole two months without his knowing smirks, and his lazy confidence. Feeling relieved he followed his friends into a compartment and sat down in his usual seat.

“So Rhys, what dramatics does your family have planned for this summer?” Rayner asked with a small grin.

“Ugh, I hope nothing dramatic will happen,” the other boy replied with a groan. “Rhosyn is supposed to be off in Monaco visiting her beau’s family and I hope they all stay there. We’re supposed to do a visit out to Swansea though, since they’ll all be too busy getting little Druella ready for Hogwarts next summer to do a visit then.”

Clearly Rayner knew who that was as he raised his brows and asked in surprise, “Is she really that old already?”

Their conversation continued for several minutes while the last of the carriages emptied and compartments finished filling, and Tom only faintly followed the thread as he didn’t know any of the names being mentioned. Just before the whistle sounded and the train set off their compartment door slid open and Alexius entered, followed by a blonde girl that Tom knew to be Gamp, a Ravenclaw in their year.

Rhys’s face seemed to curdle.

“I hope no one minds,” Alexius said airily as he took a seat next to Rayner, leaving the spot next to Rhys open for the girl. “I invited Agatha to sit with us for a bit.”

“Hello everyone,” she said looking around at them all, one corner of her mouth pulling upward. “I really hope you don’t mind the intrusion. My usual compartment is full of chatter about the latest advancements in hair serum, and while I enjoy discussing potion developments as much as the next person, this is the fourth time they’ve debated the topic this week.”

Tom shared a slightly bemused look with Rayner while Rhys looked completely nonplussed. Tancred said something noncommittal, and then they all started up a conversation about the following year’s O.W.L.s as the train set off.

When the trolley came by an hour into the journey Gamp made noises about returning to her compartment, and as she left Tom had the passing thought that she’d seemed nice, rather clever, and that he wasn’t sure what Rhys was so upset about.

“Don’t even try to tell me that you’ve had wonderful conversations with her over the years, and that you’ve always thought she was a lovely girl,” Rhys said once the compartment door closed and the sound of her receding footsteps had faded. “You hardly even knew she existed until you were paired up in Creatures a month ago. Admit it.”

A faint blush bloomed high on Alexius’s cheeks. “Well, if you must know, I quite liked working on that project with her.”

The smaller boy blinked. “Wait. You two bonded over a _Murtlap_?”

“She said it was charming,” Alexius mumbled, quite red by that point.

“Let’s all leave Alexius be,” Rayner cut in. “We don’t know who among the rest of us will be hoodwinked by affection next.”

Conversation carried onto the much safer topic of their summer plans. Rayner revealed that his family would be in the Falkland Islands for the first two weeks for his father’s work, which occasioned much grumbling from the boy— “Another break full of winter. Wonderful.” —while Tancred and Alexius would apparently both be attending many of the same posh society gatherings. One of them didn’t seem too pleased about the idea.

After several more hours they arrived in London, and following a round of farewells Tom made his way over to the bank of fireplaces, to Floo back up to Hogsmeade. 

When he arrived he was immediately pinned by a suspicious, narrow stare from the barman.

“You get off at the wrong grate, boy?” the man asked in his gruff voice.

Tom brushed some of the soot from his robes and stepped forward, carrying his lightened trunk over to the bar. “No, sir. I was hoping to rent a room.”

The man’s eyes narrowed further as he gave him a long, hard look. “No funny business,” he barked.

“No sir,” Tom replied, shaking his head.

“How long will you be needing, then?”

“Until September 1st.”

His eyes were thin as slits, at that point. Another long look, then, “Six galleons, room only.”

Tom blinked. Surely he had misheard; it had been one galleon for the week last time, and he’d be staying—

“Are you deaf, kid? Do you have the money or not?”

Tom counted out the six coins and handed them over, his brow furrowed as the man handed over a key.

“And don’t you even think about sneaking up to the castle. You do that, and you’re out,” and then he grabbed a rag and started drying some glasses, mumbling to himself. When Tom had reached the rickety staircase at the back he was grumbling something about ‘daft brothers’ and ‘not any of his damn business.’

He reached the room in somewhat of a daze, then sat down on the bed. “Do you suppose he has that low of a monthly rate? This doesn’t seem hardly profitable, unless the rooms usually sit empty over the summer anyway.”

_I’m not sure. That did seem oddly cheap. Also, there’s just something about that man, but I can’t place it._

Tom nodded, slowly. “I know what you mean. He seems just the faintest bit familiar, yet not.”

 _He’s also quite . . . abrasive, for someone who runs a pub. Doesn’t seem like the right career choice._ There was the sensation of reflection, followed by, _Then again the teacher we had for Potions seemed to actively hate the students, so maybe it’s not too unusual to be a bad fit for your job._

Tom made a face. Sure there was being an ineffective teacher, or not adapting one’s teaching style to suit the audience, but to actually hate students? What was the point?

“You’ve said a few things that have made me realise that I’m fortunate to be studying at Hogwarts now, when I only have to put up with one professor who annoys me. It sounds like things have fallen apart by the time you’re in school.”

_Maybe. I have many fond memories, but time and distance, not to mention seeing a different version of Hogwarts, have forced me to acknowledge that things could have been better when I was a student._

There was a pause, and it was a careful, deliberating sort of pause. Then the voice added, _Which will be in about fifty years._

Tom stared, trapped in shock at the sudden admission. “Fifty years!” he exclaimed. He hadn’t really considered how near or far into the future the entity was from. Then he thought about the fact that the voice had only ever been able to ‘anchor’ itself to him for whatever reason, and bit his lip. “Do you know anyone that I’ve met? I imagine that even if we weren’t tied together, being this far back might be lonely.”

_A few of them. Some students, though it’s mostly the family names that I recognise. Not as many of the staff as I’d expected; I’d always thought of my head of house as older, and thought she’d been at Hogwarts forever, but she must not be a teacher yet. Binns, obviously, though by the time he’s teaching my years he’s so far gone it’s like he doesn’t even know he’s a ghost, or that he’s given the same lecture before—it’s amazing seeing him so lively when he’s teaching you._

There was another pause, and Tom felt a conflicted tangle of emotions. _I guess it might be a good thing that I ended up so far back. Otherwise it would be strange to finally meet my parents._

Tom shut his eyes. “You didn’t know them?” he asked softly. He’d known the entity was an orphan, living with relatives, but he hadn’t known at what age the voice had lost its parents.

 _No,_ was the quiet response. _I was very young when they were murdered._

Tom swallowed. He hadn’t known they’d been murdered.

 _The only memory I have of them is what I experience when a Dementor is near,_ the voice finished, even quieter.

“I’m sorry, John.”

And there was a multitude of emotions then that Tom couldn’t unravel.

* * *

Tom spent the first week of the break completing his summer work and establishing a routine for his continuing nonverbal practice. Working on the latter with Tancred and Rayner that year had helped him improve quicker than the progress he’d been making previously, and at that point he was able to reliably cast the first through third year charms nonverbally, and was making some strides in some transfiguration applications as well. Wandless magic, on the other hand, was completely exhausting and to date he’d only managed to perfect a _Lumos_ with his wand on the opposite side of his little rented room, and had more temperamental results with the other introductory charms he’d attempted. Attempting wandless transfiguration gave him a searing headache and made him feel like he had no magic at all.

And so after his class work was complete he added his spellcrafting project back into his routine, along with some longer walks around the village. When he’d stayed at the Hog’s Head previously he’d locked himself up in the room for most of the week, but he didn’t want to be a prisoner for over two months. He began to take a morning walk, each day setting off along a different route, and soon became acquainted with the little side streets, the duck pond, the tall hill topped by a cairn, the old mill, the dappled purple and yellow heathland, and many other small charms of the village.

One such morning he was sitting in the tall grasses next to the pond, watching the birds splash about in the water while he ate a handful of berries, duplicated from the small basket he’d purchased at the market earlier that week.

“I think I’ve worked out that charm I’ve been trying to make,” he said, enjoying the tranquility and privacy of the area. “But I don’t know if it’s wise to test it. I don’t have the space in my room but I can’t be caught doing magic out here.”

Curiosity buzzed in the back of his mind, warm and lively. _How noticeable will this spell be? No one seems to ever be out in that field with all the heathers._

Tom shook his head, and flicked a strawberry stem into the pond. A trio of tiny ducklings tumbled into each other as they changed course to investigate it. “It would be too obvious. I’d need somewhere with some cover. The Forbidden Forest would provide ample cover but after that barman’s warning I definitely don’t want to be caught on Hogwarts grounds.”

_The only cover I can think of would be in town, on one of the streets with houses. But then there is a higher chance that you’ll be spotted by the locals._

“Exactly. And I can’t wander too far away since I don’t want to get picked up by the Trace.” He mulled that over for a few more minutes, finishing up the fruit, and finally said, “I might just have to wait to test it once I can get inside the Room. That’s a shame, I wanted to show you something.”

_Oh, that’s nice. Teasing me, are you?_

Tom smiled. “Not intentionally, but now that you mention it. . . .”

Brushing his hands on his robes he stood and returned to the busier streets. 

Near the beginning of July he made a quick trip over to Borgin and Burkes, and as he had a much better idea of the curses present on the items he was selling he was able to negotiate a bit harder than he had during the winter, and walked away some time later quite satisfied. He was definitely set for the following summer, even with the purchase of additional books, and he’d have some extra coin to spare for an emergency.

His walks and his practicing carried him through until the middle of July when the annual Hogwarts letter arrived. When he opened his he was startled to see something small fall out of the envelope, and he reached down to pick it up from where it had bounced under the bed.

“Oh,” he said, sliding his thumb over its surface. He’d completely forgotten that prefects were chosen prior to fifth year, as he’d had so many other things on his mind.

_Congratulations. You deserve it._

Tom smiled. Included with the book list was a note that informed him of a mandatory prefect meeting that would take place on the Hogwarts Express at the start of term, and that the Head Boy and Head Girl would relay the year’s instructions and prefect responsibilities then.

After he finished reading the pages he tucked them away in a pocked and set about preparing to go to Diagon Alley immediately. “What, no comment about being even busier this year?”

_Why, when you’ll say it for me?_

Tom let out a quiet huff as he exited his room and made for the Floo downstairs.

Diagon Alley was fairly quiet when he arrived, and in short order he’d stopped in at Gringotts, purchased his new school texts, a few additional tomes, and some new robes as the ones he had were too short again. As he was walking back up the alley toward the Leaky Cauldron he had a sliver of a thought and briefly popped into one of the travel offices for some brochures about the various magical towns in Britain. He wasn’t sure if he’d feel brave enough to go off on an adventure that summer, but it was an idea for a future break.

Tom spent the rest of July working ahead in his new books and by the end of the month he was starting to feel a bit restless. On the last day of the month he was idly adjusting some of the knobs on his scope when he tentatively asked, “John?”

_Mmm?_

“You know the improvement that I added to the journal that allows me to use it as a Pensieve?”

There was a sense of curiosity as the voice responded in the affirmative.

“Would you be open to following me into a memory?” Tom inquired, biting his lip.

He could sense the voice weigh its response, considering the request. _You’re saying you want to . . . see me? To meet me?_

“Only if you want. I’ll understand if you don’t.” And he would understand. He would just also be disappointed about it.

There was a sizzle of trepidation but then the voice said, _I’m willing to try._

Trying not to appear too eager Tom carefully put the scope back in its case before he took a seat on the bed, his journal open in his lap and his wand in hand. Then he closed his eyes, picturing one of the days that he’d spent hours in the Room, alone. Keeping that memory in mind he extracted it and placed it into the journal. Then he entered it.

He found himself in the familiar configuration of the Room, complete with the dark ceiling scattered with stars, below which sat a pile of cushions. It was slightly disconcerting to be seeing himself, younger, lying on the cushions and staring upward, completely oblivious to the Tom that was seeing him.

Movement in his peripheral vision drew his attention and he turned to see a form unfolding from the air.

He was shorter than Tom by several inches, with darker skin and messy black hair, and the brightest green eyes he’d ever seen slightly obscured by a pair of spectacles. He looked to be no more than a year or two older than Tom, but there was a certain agelessness to him, perhaps in the sprinkling of white at his temples, or the ancient heaviness in his gaze.

They both stood there in silence, their eyes taking each other in.

John was the first to move, taking a careful step over to one of the chairs and dragging it back, so that it rested against the far wall. Then he took a seat, his eyes not leaving Tom’s.

Tom somehow managed to find his own way to the other chair, leaving it where it was, some ten feet away from John’s, and sat down. He knew he was staring. And now that he was seeing the voice, seeing John, all words that he’d wanted to say had dissolved.

Seeming to sense that John gave a small smile. “Not what you expected?” he asked gently. The voice sounded just like it had all along in Tom’s mind, the same tone, though it was more present, here, in this space.

“Something like that,” Tom croaked. He cleared his throat and shook his head a little to clear it. “I didn’t know what to expect. I . . . had no set expectations.”

“That’s good,” John replied, then the corner of his mouth quirked playfully. “You know, you gave me the name John without really asking anything about me. I could’ve been a girl.”

Tom opened his mouth immediately to tell him of course he’d known, but then he stopped. He hadn’t, not until later. His mouth closed as he frowned. Why had he assumed?

“I apologise for the assumption,” he said, his brow still furrowed. “Though, I’m sure you would have had something to say about the suggested name had you been female.”

“Maybe.”

They fell into a silence then, mostly comfortable, though Tom knew he was still definitely staring. After some long moments he decided to broach one of many subjects that he’d been holding back on, given their rocky year.

“You said that you’re anchored to me now, and when you’re not you end up scattered across time. Is there anything I can do to help you get back to where you should be? Anyone I can contact to help you? I don’t imagine you want to be trapped inside me all the time.” He said the words, even though they pained him to think about. John had been there with him when no one else was, even though he had been so quiet and cautious at the start. But it was only right.

He felt the surprise more than he could recognise it in the unfamiliar face. “That’s a nice offer,” John replied. “I’ll admit that I’m not really a fan of the idea of advertising that I’m a lost time traveller from the future,” he continued in a wry tone.

“Slughorn has mentioned the Department of Mysteries. I think that they deal in magical research. They might be a place to start?”

John’s lip curled. “I like the idea of the Ministry even less.”

Tom tilted his head in thought; that wasn’t a new revelation. “Is there something you’d like to do?”

John sighed, and leaned on an arm of his chair. “I think what I’m really confused by is why I’m attached to you.” And then something flickered across his expression, and he frowned hard while holding two fingers to his forehead, but then his face cleared and whatever it was had vanished. “I can only be in two places. Well—three, actually. I can be beside that lake at all times simultaneously. I can be attached to you, following time in a linear manner. Or I can ride along in my old life, just watching, unable to interfere at all.”

Tom raised his brows in surprise. “I didn’t realise you could follow things back to your future self. And what happens if you do that once you reach the moment that things went wrong?”

John shrugged. “I have no idea. Either I keep going but I don’t remember it, or I get ejected and I end up next to the lake again. But I doubt I’m able to keep going, since if I was I don’t know why I’d choose to leave and hang about in your past. Er—no offense,” he finished awkwardly, rifling a hand through his hair.

“Well, I suppose I can add strange mental links to my research for this year,” Tom offered, then had a different thought. “If you only went as far as your third year, how are you faring with your education? Are you keeping up with my classes, despite the fact that you can’t practice the practical aspects?”

John snorted, and mumbled something that sounded like ‘her-mmm-knee’ through a smile. “Yes, I am taking advantage of you being just as clever as you think you are and I am paying attention in classes and while you’re working on assignments. Thank you.”

They stayed and spoke of inconsequential things for what felt like another hour, Tom simply enjoying John’s presence, when he began to feel the pangs of hunger and knew he’d need to withdraw from the memory room shortly. The other boy clearly recognised that as he stood as well.

“Before you go,” he said hesitantly, taking a step closer. “May I. . . .”

John held a hand out toward him. Not sure what he was asking, Tom took his hand, as though to shake it.

The moment their skin touched he heard the other boy suck in a gasp and hold on tight, his other hand joining the first around Tom’s. And then he spent long moments simply staring at where their hands met.

Tom found himself also staring, scarcely breathing, not wanting to ruin whatever was happening.

Finally John relaxed his grip, and after tracing the lines of Tom’s palm he released the hand and took a step back. “Sorry,” he said quietly. “I—I just haven’t felt touch in a very long time.”

And then he was gone, vanished from the memory of the room, returned to a mere presence in the back of Tom’s mind.

* * *

In August they continued to meet in the journal, almost daily, though they didn’t have a repeat of that hand incident, nor did Tom feel able to mention it. And despite the easy familiarity, the comfortable closeness he felt with John now more than ever, a part of him still felt a bit unsettled after the incident and he couldn’t place the reason. As if a needle had skipped while a record was turning, but upon inspection the record revealed no scratch.

So rather than dwell on that he shifted his sleeping hours slightly and stayed up late most nights, bringing his scope out to the heathland on the outskirts of the village to watch the stars, and try to place the different formations described in the book that Tancred had given him. He could feel John’s interest as he read the omens and the symbolism linked to each aspect, and took care to spend a bit of extra time on each; his companion hadn’t ever shown this much interest in the astronomy that they’d studied at Hogwarts, so he might as well give him the opportunity to explore this avenue.

And then Tom was able to watch the Perseids in the second week of the month, which he had missed seeing the prior year since it just hadn’t occurred to him, being accustomed to living in the city during the summers, and he found himself struck utterly speechless at the magic of the shimmering lights flitting across the night sky.

 _I’ve never just sat back and watched a meteor shower before,_ John mused on the second night. _It really is something special._

Tom couldn’t break the silence but he nodded, smiling widely.

In the days that followed, after he had finished with that astronomy book he kept finding himself going back to a particular chapter, one about the Black Tortoise. It had not escaped his attention that the section began on page 77, nor that the season it represented was that of his birth, winter, nor too that the associated element was water, one which had always brought him peace before he discovered the beauty of the stars.

He also didn’t miss that the legends behind the Symbol incorporated longevity. The purging of the sins of humanity, mortality, to achieve something greater.

Which led him to facing a conversation with John, one that he’d decided a few months prior to put off, one which he’d just been avoiding.

“I feel like things keep drawing me in the direction of immortality,” he said once they’d arrived in the memory room.

John had paused in the motion of reaching for his seat while Tom spoke, then sat down. “You’re saying that because of the tortoise and snake generals in that book?”

Tom nodded. “Yes. That and the number seven. I haven’t forgotten about all of those indications back when we were studying numerology. And I just _happened_ to find that book? It wasn’t stored anywhere near it was supposed to be; I just pulled out that blood magic book because the cover looked interesting. And I can’t forget the _Uruz_ rune that I carved at Yule; I have this feeling that I’m being shown this, now, and it’s up to me to be strong and take the step.”

John’s eyes were sad. “A Horcrux, though? Are you sure you’re not just seeing what you want to see? It’s human nature to see patterns where there aren’t any, just funny coincidences.”

He nodded, feeling grim. “I don’t want to look back and regret not following the signs. I think I ought to do that ritual; I’m not going to seek out opportunities to kill people, obviously. But if I do the ritual now, then _if_ anything _should_ happen, _ever_ , I’ll be able to—to use it and put it in a vessel.”

His companion looked tired, and his eyes had a faraway look to them. A haunted look. “And the ritual itself, does it change you?”

Tom shook his head. “No, it just prepares things. It makes it so that the—piece, I suppose, is preserved for some time after, and can be transferred.”

John sighed then. “Well, I guess you should get started on it. You only have two weeks until you’re back at Hogwarts, and I’m guessing you don’t want to do this there?”

Tom ended up reviewing his memory of reading that passage in _Secrets of the Darkest Art_ at least a dozen times, wanting to ensure that he captured every detail. In studying the runes and their positioning in the ritual circle he calculated that he’d have up to six months after a . . . death to transfer a soul shard to finalise a Horcrux, though if he waited longer than that to complete the transfer the process would fail.

He waited for a clear night, wanting to do things when the starry sky was there to keep him feeling steady, and so three nights before the end of August he made his way out to the field. Once he’d arrived he set up his circle using stones he’d painstakingly etched with the needed runes over the past week, and went through the series of incantations while keeping his gaze locked on Polaris above.

When he was finished, he sat there in the warm, still night. He didn’t feel any different. After all that, if it didn’t work—

_It worked. Well, it did something. I feel . . . odd._

Tom’s eyes widened in alarm. “I—I’m sorry, I didn’t even think—”

_It’s fine. I . . . I’m looser? It’s a strange sensation._

Tom furrowed his brow. If John didn’t feel as attached, was he a soul, then? Could he transfer John to a vessel? If there was a way to make a body, maybe—

Heart racing at the possibilities and the thoughts that were skittering by in his mind, he stood and swiftly gathered his supplies, and ran back to his room at the pub. He had to write down his thoughts before they suffocated him; he might have a new research project once he returned to Hogwarts.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning:**
> 
> This chapter, along with many of the following chapters, contains non-graphic references to WWII. These references are based on factual records from the time, including dates, locations, events. I have not manufactured or exaggerated these events.
> 
> At no point will the references to the atrocities of WWII be graphic, however they may be difficult to read about.

When Tom made his way to Kings Cross on September 1st he decided to claim a compartment for himself and his friends before making his way up to the prefect meeting at the front of the train. Rhys had hardly entered when Mulciber strolled in, hooked him around his shoulders with a casual arm, then dragged him out into the corridor to walk him up to the prefects’ carriage, the whole while ignoring Tom’s efforts to free himself.

“My wonderful friend! You won’t believe the things I heard about you this summer,” the older boy said, smugness oozing from him.

Tom stiffened, suddenly feeling nervous, though he didn’t know what Mulciber meant. “What—”

“Oh, no need to be upset! Your secrets are safe with me, after all,” he said, then leaned close and added in a whisper, “My Lord.”

Tom stiffened, but by then they had arrived at the prefects’ carriage and he was being pushed inside, where there was a long table surrounded by two dozen chairs. He’d barely taken a seat when Mulciber slid into the chair next to his, giving a lazy wave to a Hufflepuff boy that Tom didn’t recognize, and then more students were joining them. Fawley was one of the last to enter the carriage and she gave him a small nod in greeting.

The whistle sounded and the train set off, and a few minutes more of idle conversation passed before a very tall girl wearing a black and yellow scarf over her hair entered the compartment holding a stack of parchment. Her eyes scanned the compartment, looking to be counting those present, then she cleared her throat.

“All right, we’re all here. Let’s get introductions out of the way so that we can go through everything,” she declared, then introduced herself as Spratt, Head Girl, from Hufflepuff, and a stocky Slytherin boy introduced himself as Cuffe, Head Boy.

One by one the prefects each introduced themselves, and while Tom could identify those of his year there were several upper years whom he hadn’t been acquainted with, and even two that he was fairly certain he had never seen before. Finally once they were finished Spratt cleared her throat again.

“Sixth and seventh years, this isn’t new for you but Cuffe and I have been asked to keep you all here for a refresher since apparently some of you could use one. As prefects we are all expected to set an example. To be a helpful guide to the new students, to be a mentor to the younger years, and to be an unbiased enforcer of school rules to assist the professors. Dereliction of duty can result in having prefect privileges revoked, and even prefect status.

“We have the power to take house points, if warranted. We can also assign detentions. If you do assign a detention you’ll need to report as much to your head of house, and they will determine who will lead the detention, and when.

“We are also responsible for patrolling the corridors of Hogwarts as well as patrolling the Hogwarts Express, once our first meeting here is done. Meetings are biweekly, and are mandatory.”

“I’ll pick things up, thank you Spratt for getting us started,” Cuffe cut in. “Now, for the perks. We have access to our own bathroom, though the Quidditch Captains do have permission to use it as well. We can also be out past curfew, though we are to do rounds during that time.”

He held up his envelope. “Your envelopes contain your particular details. They will state the times you are assigned to do rounds, the initial password for your house common room along with the prefects’ bathroom, the location of the bathroom as well as the classroom where we have our meetings, the date of our first meeting, and a list of any other additional requirements that your house might have for you.

“If you have any challenges with your duties, or with a particular student, you should let Spratt or me know,” he continued. “It’s our job to make sure that you all are able to do your jobs. Don’t wait until a prefect meeting, in case it’s more serious than you realise. Questions?”

No one seemed to have any so they divided up the hours remaining on the journey between them; Tom took the first patrol with Mulciber along with two Ravenclaws, and each pair of students started at opposite ends of the train.

“What was _that_ ,” Tom hissed once the rest of the prefects had dispersed, and they walked slowly alongside the closed compartment doors.

“What was what?” he asked innocently, before smirking and adding, “My Lord.”

Tom clenched his jaw and gave him a steady look.

Mulciber shrugged. “I saw Nott at a party this summer. We were chatting about how great you are, and he may have mentioned your impressive name. Nothing to worry yourself over.”

Tom frowned, while John seemed to prickle. “Who all was he sharing these stories with?”

“Oh, it was just a private conversation,” he said airily, flapping a hand. “Though I thought since we are such good friends I should mention it to you. Not fair to be talking behind your back, and all that.”

Tom had the fleeting thought that if John was a cat his tail would be lashing from side to side in irritation, from the rippling sensations he was feeling in that moment. “Any other conversations I should be aware of, in that case? Since we are such good friends?”

“No, can’t say there are.” Then he took a closer look at Tom. “You’re not upset, are you? Here I thought you would like the name. It is rather impressive.”

Tom exhaled hard. “I’m just not pleased that things are being talked about without my knowledge. Though if it’s only the name that was shared, I’ll not be hasty in getting upset.”

“Excellent. I’d hate to have ruined your day,” the other boy said, and then his walk turned into a swagger as he abruptly swung open a compartment door and foisted his presence upon the wide-eyed first years within.

After an hour had passed they went their separate ways, thankfully, and Tom felt a weight lift from his shoulders as he entered his friends’ compartment. Alexius wasn’t there.

“Alex is seeing Gamp,” Rhys said shortly, then returned to his chess game with Rayner, which he was rather uncharacteristically completely focused on.

“Hello Tom,” Tancred said in his usual quiet voice. “Congratulations.”

Tom smiled. “Thank you. I’ve finished with my rounds so that should be it until the feast. Fawley is the other one from our year.”

The other boys nodded; either they had already known, or they agreed with the appointment. 

“How was everyone’s summer?” he asked, wondering how much he’d missed in that first hour and a half of the train ride.

His friends told him of their adventures, Rhys’s summer having been another eventful one with family, and Rayner having spent time on three continents due to his father’s work. The latter told Tom that he had some updates to share once they were back in their dormitory later that evening, which piqued his curiosity. Tancred, meanwhile, shared that he had been dragged to many parties, dinners, and other engagements and was socially exhausted.

Alexius found them after the sun had already started to set, taking a seat in their compartment as if nothing was amiss.

“Ah, Tom, there you are! I missed you earlier. Congratulations on the post, of course.” And he set off into a rambling tale of his summer, appearing oblivious to the sullen look on Rhys’s face.

When the train arrived at the station and they were making their way to the carriages, Fawley stopped him.

“Riddle! Just in case I don’t get a chance to catch you at dinner, did you have a preference over how we assign the first years? Ellis was telling me that when she was the fifth year prefect, they divided up the boys and the girls between them, if the first years needed anything.”

Tom noticed that Rayner had lingered, apparently waiting for him, and seemed to be listening in.

He shrugged. “That’s an interesting idea. I don’t have a preference either way, but if a student feels more comfortable with one of us or the other, it might be better to leave that choice up to them?”

Fawley nodded. “That’s what I was thinking, but wanted to run it by you first. All right, I’ll see you after the feast!” And then she jogged off to catch her friends who were just climbing into a carriage.

He joined Rayner as they made their way to their friends. “She was saying something about Ellis?” the boy asked.

Tom just shrugged. “Apparently she was giving Fawley some pointers from two years ago.” The other boy dropped the matter and then they were in a carriage riding up to the castle.

That year’s influx of first years was smaller than those the prior two years, though apparently there was yet another Black cousin or sibling in this year’s group. Little Cygnus earned himself by far the loudest applause from their table of the entire group, though another boy with white-blond hair also seemed to be rather well-known as his applause was quite enthusiastic as well.

“The Malfoys that host the fancy ball over Christmas?” Tom asked Tancred quietly, remembering something about the distinctive hair colour that ran in the family. He got a swift nod in response.

Finally, the feast was underway, and once it was nearing the time that the first night’s meeting would start he met Fawley’s eye and together they collected the group of eleven year olds from the end of the table.

It was somewhat nostalgic, he mused, leading them down to the dungeons and watching their wide eyes taking it all in for the first time. When they reached that one particular patch of wall he described the way to recognise it while Fawley stated ‘Callidus Imperium’ in a clear tone. Once inside the common room, it was only a few minutes before Slughorn entered and greeted everyone, and announced the new prefects and Head Boy.

Tom found the corner of his mouth lifting in minor amusement as the words of Erbach and Pucey came back to him while he and Fawley gave their speeches to the first years. He wasn’t sure if the other prefect noticed as well but many of her words were echoes of the ones they’d heard four years earlier. With that out of the way he was about to retreat to the dormitory when Mulciber caught his gaze and so, diverted, he approached the older boy and took a seat nearby.

“Any thoughts regarding this year’s study sessions?” he asked, a casual grin stretching his mouth wide.

Tom tilted his head. “We haven’t finished with what we started last year,” he pointed out.

Mulciber nodded. “And how are you doing with that?” he asked, a brow raised.

Tom hadn’t practiced any Legilimency at all over the summer, of course, but he locked eyes on the other boy and probed. He didn’t try to push past the Occlumency barriers that were there though he did linger, observing what thoughts weren’t currently being protected, and then said with a bit of a smirk, “Lucretia? Really?”

Mulciber shrugged. “Two or three times. But adequate work. We’ll move onto breaking barriers and searching for specific information this term. You should consider adding something else though,” he added, and when Tom just gave him an expectant look, he said, “Memory charms.”

Tom blinked.

“What? It’s a useful skill to have, and practice goes a long way. You already have the mental discipline to not snap my mind, but you’ll want to know that you can do it if you ever end up in a situation where you need to use the skill.”

“Why would you even agree to being subjected to that type of practice,” Tom asked, baffled.

“Why wouldn’t I?” Mulciber countered with a wild grin. “I know things about you, you know things about me. Why not help each other?”

“Memory charms. I could make you forget those ‘things,’” he pointed out.

Mulciber’s grin widened, strangely. “I have some insurance in place in case you should get ideas, don’t you worry. Now, if we’re agreed, let’s discuss terms. I’d like more snakes this year, and I want to be your first stop if you need help with _anything_.”

Tom pushed back immediately, but after some wrangling they settled on four snakes—though Tom still didn’t see what the use was, as the paintings were rather simple-minded, but that wasn’t his problem—and the added consideration that _if_ Tom was working on something, he would consult with his friends, and then they _may_ bring in Mulciber if everyone agreed. Feeling suddenly tired he made his way to the dorm, eager to sleep but knowing there was another long conversation waiting.

Indeed, once the dormitory door closed behind him he saw four sets of eyes meet his, and he sighed. “Does anyone mind if I unpack while we get started?”

No one did, so as he unloaded his books from his trunk and arranged his robes Rayner launched into a thorough explanation of the various contacts he’d made over the summer, along with the conversations he’d managed to have regarding the various wars, and the situation in Poland.

“So you’re saying there _is_ some involvement from our side,” Tom said after the other boy had finished recounting everything some time later.

Rayner nodded. “Yes. Though it sounded like the task force assigned to that is involved in espionage, mainly, so they’re not going to overtly interfere but they’re doing what they can to make it seem like the muggles are making headway. There was also apparently some discussion about aiding in their code-breaking efforts but they dismissed the idea, as the muggles seem to be doing all right with that.” Then he pursed his lips, as if he didn’t know how to proceed, and added, “Not all of the countries apparently agreed. Many wanted to just ignore the situation entirely, since it a muggle problem.”

There was a heavy sort of silence following those words.

Then, Rhys spoke up. “My cousin told me that some students stayed at Durmstrang over the summer. Four students from Poland. And one of their professors is Polish too, but she declined my cousin’s request of correspondence. I was . . . surprised to hear that they let students stay over, given their stance on muggleborns.”

Tom nodded, also surprised. Especially given Hogwarts’ response to his own requests to stay during the summer, and the school’s much more welcoming reputation toward non-pureblood students.

“My father seemed pleased with my interest in his affairs this summer,” Rayner then added in a hesitant voice. “I told him that you were particularly interested, and he said that if any similar engagements come up during the winter break I might be able to invite you along.”

Tom’s eyes widened in surprised. “That would be excellent, if you can make that happen. I understand if it doesn’t end up working out, but I really would like to learn more.”

Rayner nodded. “I will let him know. We don’t really do Christmas, or Yule, or any other holiday celebration, but if you’re interested. . . .”

He shook his head. “That’s fine. Really, as wonderful as it has been to spend the holidays celebrating, I think I would rather be productive.”

Tancred got an odd look at that, and Tom gave him an apologetic smile. “Was there anything else?”

Heads were shaking as Rayner handed over a collection of notes from his summer meetings.

“Thank you both, I appreciate the extra work you’ve done for this. I did want to ask about something else from this summer, though. Alexius, I heard from Mulciber that you two were at some of the same parties?”

The other boy looked somewhat flustered, and Tancred was levelling a suspicious look toward the other boy.

“Yes, ah, we did happen to run into each other at a few engagements. He mentioned me, did he?”

Tom felt annoyance creeping up on him, partially at the dithering, but also he was just so _tired_. “Yes. He addressed me in a way that indicated you two had been talking about me. I just was wondering _why_ you were talking about me, and what else you may have shared.”

Alexius glanced away. “Well, he was simply saying that you were studious, and a top student, and that he was enjoying working with you. I shared that I held some regret over not having selected Arithmancy as an elective, as you’ve done so much with the subject, and I might have let slip the name as an example.” He looked back over to Tom and he could read the truth in his dorm mate’s eyes.

Tom sighed. “I’ve trusted you all with private, personal information. I just want to know that it wasn’t a foolish mistake on my part to do so.”

He could see Alexius swallow, and look ashamed. “I didn’t share anything with him beyond the name, My Lord. I apologise. I will be more careful.”

Noting that the room’s other occupants seemed to be holding their breaths, watching the exchange almost nervously, Tom let another sigh escape. “I’m tired. Is there anything else we need to talk about urgently? I’ll have prefect rounds on Tuesdays and Fridays after tonight, as a note.”

There was a chorus of negative responses as the other boys all started to get ready for bed. Tom tucked himself behind the curtains, checked that his privacy runes were still intact, and let himself fall back against his pillows with a groan.

“John, I’m completely _drained_.”

_I can see that. You did stay up too late last night watching the stars, and I did tell you you’d end up regretting it._

Tom rolled his eyes. “You can just say ‘I told you so,’ you know.”

_Yes, but you can also say it for me. That’s twice as satisfying._

Tom snorted, then climbed under the blankets. “I don’t think I’ll go to the memory room tonight. I’m too knackered.”

_I understand._ Then there was a pause, and Tom could feel him thinking about something. _They respect you, you know. They’re starting to defer to you._

Tom made a face. “I’ve noticed. They treat me a bit like they treated Alexius back in first year. It’s strange.”

_Does it make you uncomfortable?_

Tom considered, then gave a helpless shrug. “I’m not certain. It seems to only really come up when we’re discussing the muggle issues, so in a sense I can understand that as I’m the one who is the most impacted, of us all. I’m just worried about what sort of additional attention it’ll garner me from Dumbledore if he notices.”

_That’s a fair point. He already notices a lot. Though it’s nice that he didn’t find a way to redirect your appointment as prefect._

“Unless he let it happen because it’ll allow him to scrutinise me even more,” he pointed out. Then he gave another shrug. “I can’t let that man ruin my life. I’ll just continue on as I have been, when it comes to him.”

They spoke a bit more, until Tom was having difficulty speaking through yawns, and finally sleep claimed him.

* * *

Morning arrived all too soon as Tom prepared for the day and made for the common room before the other boys even stirred, meeting a put-together Fawley with bleary eyes. He exchanged a small smile with her as she hid a jaw-cracking yawn, then shook herself. While they were still waiting for the first years to arrive Cuffe approached from the direction of Slughorn’s office, handed over a stack of parchment, then trudged off toward the dorms without saying a word. A quick look revealed them to be the first years’ timetables, along with one each for himself and Fawley. He handed the girl’s page over as she smothered another yawn.

When the last of the first years trailed in they set off to breakfast, and in short order were taking them on a brisk tour of the castle. Once they arrived back at the common room and handed out the timetables Tom called out, “You all have Transfiguration first today. If you want a guide you can fetch your things now and I’ll walk that way with you.”

Fawley raised a brow at him and he just gave her a small shrug. He’d be passing near the Transfiguration corridor on the way up to their History class, and this year’s new students wouldn’t have the luxury of one class followed by a free weekend to familiarise themselves like they’d had in their first year.

Once they arrived at their class Tom was intrigued to see multiple topics of interest on that year’s syllabus, including the International Statute of Secrecy, and various international assemblies that had existed over the past thousand years. He was curious to learn how those organisations had evolved over time, and if any practices had been lost that might be valuable to bring back—if he had a way of doing such a thing.

They had Defence next and the syllabus looked to include a jumble of anything that they hadn’t covered in their much more organised breakdown of subjects in earlier years, and the final term seemed to be a revision of everything they’d ever covered that would be included in their O.W.L.s. In truth, the Charms syllabus they received after lunch was much the same, though that year’s Arithmancy class looked to be a series of case studies, where they would study historical events and apply them to a diverse array of number charts.

That evening, when he was sitting in the common room jotting out some numbers in his Arithmancy notes about the fall of Babylon, he was peripherally aware of students approaching his corner of the room. Once they reached the table he looked up, seeing two of the first years.

“Can I help you?” he asked, setting his quill down.

The two girls looked at each other, seeming to have an unvoiced conversation, until one turned back toward him and blurted out, “A Gryffindor in class today said that you helped her brother with his Transfiguration, and that you’re really good at it, but then _another_ Gryffindor said that Slytherins don’t help Gryffindors, and my father said that Transfiguration was really hard. Is it true?”

Tom blinked a few times, and he heard muffled cough from Rayner who was sitting nearby.

“Let’s take those one at a time,” he said, offering a small smile. “Yes, Transfiguration can be quite difficult, but that’s nothing to worry about. You’ll spend quite a bit of time in class working on each transfiguration task, and there’s nothing wrong with working together to help each other. Yes, I _have_ helped other students in my classes with Transfiguration before, whether they were sorted into Slytherin or Gryffindor,” he continued, though not mentioning that he mostly did it out of spite for Dumbledore rather than out of any sort of altruistic concern. “And finally, there is no reason why a Gryffindor and a Slytherin shouldn’t get along just fine.”

The two girls stared at him, and then the other one said, “Will you help us? With Transfiguration? If it’s really hard?”

He held back a sigh. He could feel John’s mirth. “I’d like you to work on it on your own first. Your professors would prefer that as well. However, if you try your hardest and still find yourself stuck, let me know and we’ll see if I can offer any suggestions. How does that sound?”

He received eager nods and even more eager thanks in response then they ran off. He turned to Rayner and Tancred, both of whom weren’t even bothering to conceal their amusement, and gave them a flat look.

“You were very sweet with them,” Tancred offered, and his funny little smile was back. Tom hadn’t seen that particular smile in quite some time, and narrowed his eyes in response.

“Yes. Quite kind. So helpful,” Rayner added, then gave another cough.

Tom did sigh then, and elected to ignore his horrible friends and instead turn back to his work. There were a few snickers in the moments that followed.

Shelton and Walsh, as he’d learned were their names, had apparently spread the word among their year mates that Tom was happy to help them but only if they put in effort first, and that had apparently been understood as encouragement for most of their year to complete their assignments and practice their spellwork in the common room. The upper years looked quite confused at that, especially as it upset some of the longstanding typically seating arrangements in the space, but no one gave them trouble for which Tom was grateful. He was not however grateful for the smirks that his friends insisted on sending his way.

Michael Ingram had caught Tom that Thursday and relayed that the rest of their usual Ravenclaw group had decided not to resume their library discussions since most of them were in their O.W.L. year, and expected a very busy year of revision ahead. And that suited him just fine—with the addition of prefect rounds Tom’s timetable was very busy. As it was, by Friday morning he was already contemplating which classes he would not continue with once he was in sixth year.

Friday afternoon brought their Ancient Runes class, and while the syllabus didn’t include anything particularly noteworthy, something in Tofty’s overview of that year’s topics caused him to perk up.

“The first item on our list will be warding stones,” he was saying, pacing up and down the aisles in the classroom, his hands waving animatedly as his eyes brightened in excitement. “Now, I know many of you live in ancient homes that have stood the test of time, strengthening with each passing generation. But how were those homes originally warded? What about magical hubs such as Diagon Alley, or Hogsmeade? What about large magical institutions such as the Ministry of Magic, or St Mungo’s, or Hogwarts? What about the impact that changes in infrastructure have on those warding installations?”

The wards of Hogwarts. Tom had set aside his project of learning more about the secrets of the castle after finding the Room, and after his searches for whatever Slytherin had built had turned up nothing. But as Tofty was a self-professed history buff, perhaps he may share some insights when he reached that part of the topic.

Prior to dinner, Tom had a note sent up to Dippet’s office with that year’s request about summer accommodation. He was sure to include the point that Durmstrang had allowed some students to stay over due to the ongoing situation in Poland, and that he hoped he might receive similar consideration. Though he was sure to not let himself get his hopes up.

That evening between curfew and his midnight Astronomy class he, Selwyn, and a sixth year Gryffindor named Tuft set off on their first prefect rounds of the year. Tuft pointed out some of the spots he said were the usual hideouts of students out after curfew, and indeed they managed to catch two couples and a trio of first years out within the first hour. The time seemed to pass rather quickly, at least, and finally several hours later he was finished his rounds, with class, with _everything_ , and was diving into the memory room while tucked away in his bed.

“John, you’re lucky you didn’t do fifth year. I don’t know how I’m going to make it the June,” he said immediately upon entering. He’d chosen a slightly different memory, one where he’d been sat at the table for hours working through stacks of _The Oracle_. He was therefore able to throw himself onto the large pile of cushions that were unoccupied at the room’s centre.

“Sometimes I think that only Rhys is so dramatic. But then you have these moments,” was the response, as John unfolded himself from the nearby air and pulled a cushion out from the mound, sitting on it a moment later.

Tom let out a whimper, though it was for show, then he rolled onto his back and stretched his arms out to either side. “I am regretting offering any help to those first years now. They haven’t needed it yet but it’s still the first week, and once they get into their practical items it might become a bit much.”

He saw the other boy angle a look his way, a brow raised. “You don’t actually regret it though.” And it wasn’t even a question.

Tom sighed. “No, I don’t. I wonder, though, if I hadn’t been so . . . prideful in first year, and asked the prefects for help, would things have been better? Even now, should I say something about Dumbledore? It seems almost silly now since I have my way of dealing with it, and he doesn’t _really_ bother me, mostly, but. . . .” He trailed off, worrying his lip.

“I think,” John started slowly, as if he was reflecting seriously on the words, “that everyone gets wiser as they get older. And I think that everyone thinks they were idiots when they were younger. For some reason or other.”

Tom tilted his head toward his companion. “You’ve mentioned that about yourself before. You said you didn’t question things?”

He shook his head, then lowered his chin to rest on a fist, his elbow propped up on a leg. “No, I didn’t. I also didn’t ask for help. Well, I tried a few times, but my concerns were either dismissed entirely or the adults I asked ended up being incompetent and made the situation even worse.” His expression was one of frustration. “ _But_ , I also never asked the prefects for anything. One was even my best friend’s older brother. And he became Head Boy in my third year, _and_ he personally looked out for my safety while everyone believed an escaped Azkaban convict was trying to kill me, but more than anything I was just annoyed by him.”

Tom blinked, then huffed. “It’s been awhile since you’ve sprung something like that on me.” He glanced over to see a teasing grin on the other boy’s face. “But I can understand that reluctance to ask for help if the adults had always let you down. And I suppose you just saw your friend’s brother as another authority figure?”

John nodded, then frowned. “Yes, in a way, but also we made fun of him. It was this grand joke among his siblings that he was book smart. ‘Perfect Percy,’ we called him. And he was incredibly bright. Top grades in all his classes. . . .” He shook his head. “I was so judgmental about those who wanted to learn. My other close friend was very studious as well. Looking back I don’t even know why she put up with us, or how we possibly became friends. She was a bit socially oblivious, but she was a good student and studied hard, and it was something we just rolled our eyes over. She tried to make sure we did well in our classes, and instead we just played Exploding Snap and talked about Quidditch. Sometimes I think that if we hadn’t saved her from that troll, we’d have never had a reason to get along.

“And even now I honestly can’t say why I had a problem with taking things seriously. Maybe because I didn’t have any reason to do well at my muggle primary since it certainly wouldn’t have helped me get on with my relatives, and the neighbours all thought I was some delinquent? Maybe because I came to Hogwarts completely ignorant to everything, and somehow still managed to do mostly okay in classes, so I didn’t feel the need to try?”

Then he stopped, dragging a hand through his hair and letting a groan of frustration escape. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to rant,” he said, looking rather sheepish.

“Don’t apologise. I enjoy hearing more about you,” Tom said. When the other boy didn’t look convinced Tom added, “It sounds like in a few more years I might also have much more to look back on with frustration.”

Then he turned an expectant look toward John. “A troll?”

* * *

Sure enough, Tofty’s lecture about warding stones was one that prompted many, _many_ notes in Tom’s journal and not only about runes.

“Now, Diagon Alley was established in conjunction with the surrounding muggle area, so the warding stones were planned into the nearby environment. Despite the _heavy_ use of expansion charms to accommodate additions onto existing property, and even on occasion new districts, the _physical_ footprint of the area is fixed.

“We can compare that to St Mungo’s,” Tofty continued, and the man went onto describe less about the warding stones themselves and more about the various expansions and restructuring that the hospital had seen in past centuries.

After a brief overview of the Ministry building and how a facility within a facility could use its own warding structure, such as with the secretive Department of Mysteries, he moved onto Hogwarts.

“As we all know, the castle is about a thousand years old, and as you can imagine things certainly do like to change as time goes on. Who can name ways that this might impact the wards? Smith.”

“A headmaster might need to change some of the protections, sir?” offered the Hufflepuff boy tentatively.

“Absolutely. As legislation changes, a headmaster may need to amend certain restrictions. Why, the International Statute of Secrecy was established centuries after Hogwarts was built, and there were a very many changes that needed to take place in the castle’s protections at that time. Now, what other changes might impact the wards over time? Anyone? Fawcett.”

“There might be additions built onto the castle?” said a Ravenclaw girl, sounding even more hesitant than Smith had.

“Yes! Depending on the type of addition, wards may need to be updated. For instance the Quidditch Pitch wasn’t always on Hogwarts grounds, and so the air outside the castle wasn’t as strictly shielded from view in the same way that the castle is. The castle’s enchantments to make it appear as derelict ruins had long been in place before someone thought to shield the witches and wizards flying about on brooms from view.

“Also consider structural innovation. The plumbing in the castle was added but two hundred years ago, and so there was an extensive project to ensure that the protections on the castle also included the pipes, so that unwanted visitors could not Apparate onto school grounds by that means. Any other ideas?”

And Tom’s mind was racing. Plumbing was installed after Hogwarts was built, after Salazar Slytherin was long gone. Perhaps any access to whatever structure he had built was concealed because of the new additions. But then Tofty was saying something further, in response to a Ravenclaw’s question he had missed.

“Ah, I hear this question at least once every year. Why, Professor Binns tells me that he’s been asked in his classes, though he doesn’t consider it to be true ‘history.’ But yes, warding stones could indeed be in place and conceal locations lost to time, legendary rooms rumoured to exist such as the Raven’s Roost, or Helga’s Hearth, or Salazar’s Chamber of Secrets. . . . The only such room that has been found is the tower now used as the headmaster’s office, though it was once the space of Godric Gryffindor, if the tales are to be believed.”

Tom could feel a prickling sensation from John. He could see the gleam of curiosity in many of the eyes around him, and he knew that his own must look much the same.

Slytherin had a _Chamber of Secrets_. And he would find it.

By the end of the second week of classes Tom had decided not to continue with the Astronomy Club, as the late nights in the rest of the week were enough without an additional voluntary one on the weekend. He did however continue on with the Duelling Club, and after only a brief consideration he also signed up for Charms Club; while he was finding himself further and further ahead of the class material, Smethwyck was still managing to provide new lists for them to learn in the club.

That Saturday morning they had their first prefect meeting, and Dippet, Beery, and Pringle arrived to lead them into Classroom Eleven.

It was a two hour affair, and Tom was still exhausted from Astronomy the night prior, but Dippet reviewed the expectations of prefect behaviour and Pringle told them all what types of tasks he enjoyed assigning for his own detentions, should they need the inspiration to scare the students that they found misbehaving in corridors. Tom found himself frowning at the man.

Then Beery took up the thread. “You’ll find that certain students may become familiar to you, and those of you who have held this post previous will know—if you find yourself taking points and assigning detention to the same student multiple times, you are expected to bring that up in the next prefect meeting. And, if their infractions are quite serious, you should report the incidents to your head of house right away.”

“I will add,” Dippet cut in, “that at times students may be suspended for certain behaviour, or that they may be here on a probationary basis. You are expected to maintain discretion on those details and keep the information about those students contained to these meetings, and there will be severe consequences if a prefect is found in breach of that. Does everyone understand?”

After a round of nods, Dippet continued. “There is a student now who is under such a probation, and I will ask that each of you watch for any further behaviour that might be cause for discipline. If anything is noted, you are to bring it to myself directly.” He gazed around at them, meeting each prefect’s eyes, before continuing. “I speak of the third year Gryffindor student named Rubeus Hagrid. He has been disciplined for two serious infractions already, and is aware that a third of the sort will result in expulsion.”

There was a sort of melancholy emanating from John’s corner of his mind.

Tom noted that the sixth and seventh year prefects didn’t look the least bit surprised by that, and when Tom met Mulciber’s eyes he saw something flash on the surface of his mind, something that to Tom’s passive Legilimency stated, ‘Yes.’

And then he reflected on the passage of time. A first year student had brought in the wolf cubs. An eleven year old.

The rest of the meeting passed slowly, as Beery reviewed with them the minutia of Hogwarts rules, procedures, and many other boring details but Tom kept coming back to that thought.

Eleven years old. And the wolf cubs had apparently only been one of two infractions. He couldn’t help but wonder what the other was.

* * *

After their first Charms Club meeting that afternoon Tom had planned to retreat to the Room, but upon spotting Stalk just disappearing around a corner he rushed to catch up with the man.

“Ah, Mr Riddle,” he greeted. “I hope you had a safe summer?”

“Yes, sir, thank you,” he replied, keeping pace with him. “I was wondering if you might have a few moments to discuss anything I may have missed?”

“There is one piece of news you may wish to be aware of. Otherwise, I am sorry to report that things are much the same.

They made their way to the Muggle Studies classroom and once inside Stalk found a particular document. “Prince George, Duke of Kent, died at the end of August. He was in the Royal Air Force, and the plane he was on crashed as it was flying over Scotland.”

Tom blinked a few times. Prince George. . . . “The King’s brother?” Stalk nodded. He bit his lip as he thought. “Was it—was there an air raid? Was the plane shot out of the air?”

He shook his head. “It is believed not.”

Tom didn’t really know what to think. It was such a strange piece of news. An arbitrary crash of a military plane, with a royal on board. As the professor didn’t seem have any other news, he supposed it would remain to be seen if the loss would prompt the King to take different actions regarding the war.

“Thank you, sir,” he finally said, and then retrieved his copies as usual before making his way to the Room.

_This is different,_ John said immediately when Tom shut the door behind him. And he could see why; the room looked like the heathfield from that summer, large, open, with a very high ceiling that could have been a midmorning sky. There was even the illusion of a breeze, causing the heather to sway.

“Have you figured it out yet?” he asked as he stepped out thirty paces.

_Something to do with flight, obviously, but past that you’ve lost me._

Tom smiled then whispered, “ _Solum Volantis_.”

And he felt a weightlessness envelop him, even as he felt a pressure build within his palms. And as he rose in the air he held onto that pressure, slowly feeling it, pulling on it, familiarising himself with the control he had over his movement.

_Are you—_

Tom laughed, and then John echoed him, the laughter accompanied by the sensation of jubilation.

They spent twenty minutes flying, Tom focusing on the control of the movements, trying to not get too distracted by the emotions washing over him. When they landed some time later Tom could feel beads of sweat forming at his temples from the exertion.

_So, what’s wrong with a broom?_ John asked in a teasing tone.

Tom huffed. “They’re cumbersome. If you want to fly somewhere you need to have had the forethought to bring a broom. Or be in a location with brooms available. And you need to trust that the broom was well-made, wasn’t jinxed, damaged, any number of things. This is better,” he stated adamantly.

John laughed. _I can see now why you didn’t test that in Hogsmeade. Not exactly subtle._

The corner of Tom’s mouth quirked, and he felt pleased. “Ah, no, not exactly.”

Over the course of the following weeks Tom visited the Room several more times to continue practicing the unsupported flight, much to the delight of his companion. He also mulled over the other problems he was working on, those being the question of how to find his family, and the mystery of John.

Tom caught a hint at a plan for the former in the first Slug Club meeting of the year, to which the treasurer of the Athenaeum Club, some posh members’ association, had been invited. Rayner and Tancred had somehow arranged for Tom to be seated next to her at dinner and he soon found himself in a conversation about the pureblood elite.

“So you see with former members such as Darwin, it isn’t a requirement for members to be of a certain ancestry,” Madam Croaker was saying. “However many old families do find themselves with memberships.”

“Darwin?” Tom asked.

“Oh, yes. The man was quite a visionary, from what I understand. Those were before my days, of course. Though he did have some very strange ideas about magical creatures,” she added with a puzzled frown, which vanished an instant later. “Never mind that. Now, Horace mentioned that you are a star pupil. Intellectuals do make up quite a number of our membership, you know,” she continued, and while she continued to extol the virtues of the club Tom had the inkling of an idea.

If there were clubs that retained a membership of ‘old families,’ one that had been around for centuries and that probably had records, perhaps that was an avenue he could use to locate the Gaunts.

Once the dinner had wrapped up and everyone had made their goodbyes Tom felt quite pleased, having managed to secure a card for Madam Croaker and her promise that she’d be most happy to keep up a correspondence with him, if there was anything he should be curious about with regards to the club.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you enjoy one of Slughorn’s meetings that much before,” Tancred said quietly as they returned to the common room that night. “Did she have international influence?”

Tom paused, pursing his lips. He’d been distracted by his own problems and hadn’t stopped to consider the reason that his friends had likely arranged the seating in such a way. Well, it was a good thing he’d been planning on remaining in touch with her. As he resumed walking he shook his head and replied, “No, though I may be able to get some information about the Gaunts from her.”

They parted ways once they reached the common room, as the rest of the boys made for the dormitory while Tom was distracted by the sight of a few first years poking at the snake painting, watching as it hissed at them.

Biting his lip, thinking of Mulciber’s watchers around the school, he approached the painting, and set up a watch on a certain third year student.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning:**
> 
> This chapter, along with many of the following chapters, contains non-graphic references to WWII. These references are based on factual records from the time, including dates, locations, events. I have not manufactured or exaggerated these events.
> 
> At no point will the references to the atrocities of WWII be graphic, however they may be difficult to read about.

The weeks continued to pass slowly in some respects, as he always seemed to be in classes, or taking care of prefect duties, though in other respects he just never seemed to have enough time.

Tom had continued to write Madam Croaker and by the end of October he had broached the subject of the Gaunts, mentioning that it was a family he had read about and was curious about a way of getting in touch, as he hadn’t been successful with the post. She had assured him that she would keep an eye out for the name in the club’s committee minutes, membership dues, and other paperwork.

Meanwhile, he had hit a wall with his other projects. Sunday afternoons had been given over to any and all research into the ‘John topics,’ those being anything to do with mental connections, as well as ways of creating a body. Unsurprisingly those were not topics easily found in the unrestricted areas of the library, and to say he was hesitant to seek permission for the topics in the Restricted Section was putting it mildly; if Dumbledore had had a problem with Tom researching souls, he would most _certainly_ have a problem with him researching bodies.

And so, unfortunately having reached an impasse on those matters he took to exploring the castle again, this time with an eye toward the plumbing.

John seemed . . . less than thrilled with the idea.

“I don’t understand what’s upsetting you,” Tom finally said one evening, sitting on the floor of the memory room and leaning against a wall. “It’s not like it would be dangerous. This is a school. This was built as a school. Besides, it’s been a thousand years; if it was dangerous I’m sure we’d have heard about it by now.”

John had a pained expression on his face. “I don’t think it’s that simple. What if it is dangerous, and that’s why it’s been sealed away for this long?”

The corner of his mouth quirked. “Fine, be reasonable,” he said petulantly, then huffed. “Surely if it was dangerous the castle wards would keep the students safe? Surely—surely Slytherin wouldn’t have made a chamber that was dangerous to students, when he himself founded a school?”

“He was famously remembered for his views on muggleborns,” John pointed out, and Tom grimaced. “Why are you so determined to find it, anyway?” He sounded genuinely curious.

“Why shouldn’t I be? It’s a part of my family, a part of me, and I want to know everything I can.” Then Tom frowned. “More to the point, I think—why is no one else looking for it? You would think that a thousand years, during which time there have been thousands of students and teachers in the castle, _someone_ would have found it.”

“Which points to it not being findable.”

Tom worried his lip. “Or it ties into people not being curious. Society has been trained to simply take things at face value. To leave problems for other people to solve.”

John’s eyebrows skittered into his fringe. “You think that the reason no one’s found the Chamber of Secrets is the same reason that magical Britain ignores everything.”

He shrugged. “Well, it could certainly be a part of it.”

John became silent then, and the faraway gaze that he sometimes had was present. Tom let him ruminate, and finally his companion opened his mouth. “I’m going to warn you,” he began slowly, and all of a sudden Tom was alert, the hair on his arms standing on end. “The Chamber is dangerous. And I think that you should be careful. I know that I can’t stop you from looking for it, but if you feel any doubt, any at all, you should stop looking for it. People could get hurt.”

Tom sucked in a breath. Cautiously, he asked, “Can you tell me anything more specific?”

A long pause. “There’s something locked up down there that is dangerous. Deadly.” His mouth was a thin line, and he didn’t say anything further.

He nodded slowly. “I’ll be careful. I—I appreciate the warning.”

John sighed then, and reached over to give his arm a gentle squeeze. “I trust you. Just _please_ be careful.”

And in the weeks that followed Tom remembered those words, though it didn’t do him much good as he didn’t seem to be making progress. He did reserve his explorations for only one day each week though, since Rhys was becoming more and more glum as the autumn wore on and Alexius was even more absent than he’d been when he had been seeing Fawley the previous year. Rayner was also keeping quite close to Tom, and seemed more than ever interested in how he was doing with his prefect duties. A few times the boy had stayed up late in the common room, waiting for Tom and Ellis to return from their Tuesday rounds.

And then one Friday night in early December, while he was on his prefect rounds, he was passing by a girls’ lavatory on the second floor and heard sounds from within. Knowing that it was at least an hour after curfew and that Selwyn was currently doing her rounds two floors above he knocked, then cracked the door open and called out, “It’s after curfew. You need to return to your common room.”

He heard sniffles, but no response. Releasing a silent sigh he opened the door about a foot and looked in. He didn’t see anyone present but one of the stall doors was closed.

“I’m coming in, don’t be alarmed,” he said, and opened the door fully, which he propped open with a spell. “Curfew was over an hour ago. I’ll walk you back to your common room, or I can get your head of house if you prefer.”

There was a louder sniff, then the sound of the stall’s lock disengaging. A few moments later a small Ravenclaw with puffy red eyes and large spectacles stumbled out.

“I d-don’t want to go back,” she said, avoiding his gaze. “I just want to s-s-stay here.”

Tom felt uncomfortable, and he could sense that John felt very uncomfortable. “Well, you seem to be rather upset. Would you prefer to go to the Hospital Wing? You can’t stay here this late at night, I’m afraid.”

She gave a few more sniffles then shuffled toward the door. “I’ll go back to the tower,” she finally said glumly.

Tom wrestled with himself for a moment, then said, “I won’t take house points this once. But if you’re caught out again you’ll be facing that, and probably detention.” And as he was turning toward the door an odd glimmer on the side of one of the taps caught his eye. Blinking a few times it came into focus; it looked to be a tiny engraved snake. There was a spike of tension at the back of his mind.

The girl gave a small nod in response to his warning and continued into the corridor, so giving one last look at the sink Tom turned to follow, and walked her back up to her common room.

He didn’t have a chance to investigate further that night, but when it came time to go on his usual wanderings on Sunday he instead retreated to the Room and entered his journal.

“You saw it,” he said immediately once John materialised next to him. “The snake engraving. That’s it, isn’t it.”

He could see the tension John was carrying. He could feel it. The boy gave a slow nod.

“I’m remembering what you said. I’m not going to rush back there and open it right away.” Tom bit his lip. “Now that I’ve found it, I don’t know what to do.” Then he gave a short laugh. “Four years later, and now I don’t know what to do.”

Some of John’s tension seemed to be easing. “So you’re not going to go down there? That is reassuring.”

Tom considered. “I think that if I decide to explore further, I should make sure I have adequate time. And I’ll let Tancred know, and make use of the pendant.” He still wore it, after all, and it would be foolish to not have some way to alert anyone if there should be an emergency.

“Will you be bringing anyone else down there?”

He shook his head. “Not at first. I would rather know what secrets the place hides, first.”

John gave him a complicated look. “Make sure you set up that plan with Tancred, then.”

And so Tom did. He wasn’t specific in the details of what exactly he might be doing that could possibly be dangerous, and Tancred didn’t seem particularly pleased with the vague request, especially if it involved an emergency, but he agreed to continue to wear his pendant, and to act accordingly should it grow warm.

By the second week of December Rayner had confirmed that Tom would be able to join him and his parents in Portugal while his father met with ICW contacts and his mother met with associates of her own, and Tom readily accepted the invitation. He had managed to open some line of correspondence with a few of the individuals that Rayner had met over the summer and was looking forward to the opportunity of speaking to some new contacts in person.

And then in the third week of December, on the Friday before the Hogwarts Express would be departing for London, his weekly check-in with Professor Stalk brought a reminder of an unpleasant topic.

“Several countries have together denounced Germany’s actions in Poland, and their acts against the Jewish people. There was an address made to the House of Commons yesterday regarding the mass exterminations that are currently taking place,” the teacher told him.

Tom furrowed his brow. “I don’t understand, sir. That booklet you gave me was from a year ago.”

Stalk sighed and nodded. He saw that the man had a sprinkling of grey in his hair that certainly hadn’t been there a few years earlier. “That is true. I can’t say why this address was made only now, nor what actions over the past year led to this.”

Tom took the duplicated booklet that the professor was handing him and looked at its cover.

> REPUBLIC OF POLAND  
>  _Ministry of Foreign Affairs_
> 
> —
> 
> **THE MASS EXTERMINATION**   
>  **of JEWS in**   
>  **GERMAN OCCUPIED POLAND**
> 
> —
> 
> NOTE  
> addressed to the Governments of the  
> United Nations on December 10th, 1942,  
> and other documents

  
His jaw clenched for a few moments, until he made the effort to relax it. And he had to ask. “Why is this happening? Why are they trying to erase an entire culture? Why are they doing so many horrible things in service of that goal?”

He wasn’t sure if he would get a response; the classroom was very quiet, though he wasn’t looking at the professor to see his reaction to the words. A few moments passed before Stalk said, “Some may explain this away as the acts of a monster. The acts of an evil man in power who couldn’t be controlled.” He paused, and Tom was still, waiting for him to continue. “I believe that is a mistake. Many people allowed this to happen, and blame is not so easily assigned. And every person is capable of evil, not only monsters.”

The air held a solemn taste as Tom digested those words. The words lingered with him as he left the room some ten minutes later, after he and the professor had continue to speak about the events. They stayed with him as he made his way up to the Room, and opened his journal, and climbed inside.

“I think I need to go see the Chamber,” he said in a quiet voice once his companion had joined him. Tom was sitting on the pile of cushions, his back hunched as he looked down toward his lap. He could sense the other boy taking a seat on the floor nearby.

“Is this your reaction after talking to Stalk?” John asked just as quietly, though slowly, in a deliberate tone.

Tom mulled that over, then shook his head. “No. It’s not me lashing out, or anything. I just want to understand why. Why kill all the Jews. Why kill all the muggleborns. What makes one person believe—” He cut himself off as he heard his voice rising, sounding frantic.

He took a few steadying breaths.

“Maybe he has a manifesto. Or maybe he has a journal, or a portrait, or _something_ that can help explain.”

“Would you want to understand how a person can consider that much life worth destroying?” was the quiet question. “ _Could_ you understand?”

Tom let out a shaky breath. “It’s what I do,” he finally said. “I learn things. I understand things. I try to understand everything. It’s how I make sense of magic, of people, of all of the unspoken rules. I don’t like uncertainty.”

He finally looked up toward his companion, and saw him giving Tom a small nod, his eyes sad. “I can see that, I guess.” Then he frowned. “When are you thinking of going, after Runes?”

Tom nodded. “Yes. I’ll have that last class block free, and depending how long it takes I can skip dinner, and pick something up from the kitchens while I’m on my rounds tonight. I’ll need to let Tancred know.”

John gave him one last nod before he was out of the journal and setting off to lunch.

He went through Runes in a daze, automatically taking notes while Tofty lectured about recursive runes as he was more consciously aware of the time passing, and his exploration of the lost Chamber of Secrets drawing nearer.

When the bell rang and the students dispersed Tancred grabbed his forearm, gave him a hard look, and said, “Be careful,” in a stern voice before stalking off stiffly. Blinking a bit in reaction it took a few moments to start making his way to the second floor but some five minutes later he had arrived in the corridor.

As he didn’t have a way of determining if the lavatory was occupied he lingered near the junction with the next corridor over, and considered himself fortunate that there weren’t any portraits on this stretch of wall, only tapestries.

After a ten minute wait he didn’t see a single student pass and as he knew that the next class block had begun he opened the door with a spell from a distance, and quietly whispered _Homenum Revelio_ , waiting a breath until he was certain there was no one nearby, then he stepped inside and shut the door. Deliberating for only a moment he sent a Locking Charm, then a Sticking Charm toward the door, then leaned down to investigate the sink.

Sure enough, right on the side of a copper tap that didn’t seem to do much of anything when he turned it, was an engraving of a snake.

He cast a few charms on the tap to start, beginning with _Alohamora, Aberto,_ and _Dissendium_ , and progressing onto more complex ones they’d covered in Charms Club, but there was no appreciable response to any of them. Finally, tilting his head slightly and giving the little snake a narrow glare, he ordered, _“Open.”_

And it did. The sink glowed, the tap spun, and the entire thing opened up to reveal an immense pipe that disappeared into darkness.

“Open? _Really?_ ” he scoffed. “I’m reminded of Alcott and his stupid box,” he muttered, before casting a few charms at the pipe. They revealed that it was several hundred feet long, and that there was nothing obstructing the passage, so he cast a silent _Lumos_ , followed by his own created flight spell. As he lowered himself carefully into the pipe he called up a Parseltongue order for the opening to close once he was several feet down.

He was grateful for the soft white glow of his wand as he descended, as there was no other light source once the sink above was returned to its original position. The walls of the pipe appeared to glisten with moisture as he passed, and it seemed to branch off to narrower pipes in all directions.

Once he reached the bottom he found himself in a stone tunnel, the air much cooler and very damp. And very, very still.

He walked for what felt like half an hour, not encountering a single thing in the tunnel. Despite the dampness in the air the stone floor was dry, and his footsteps were loud in the empty passage. It curved, almost as though it had been built to lead around something, but finally it came to an end at a solid wall bearing a large carving of two entwined snakes with emeralds for eyes.

John felt like he was quivering—with tension, fear, Tom wasn’t certain.

 _“Open,”_ he hissed again, his lip curling when the simple password worked just as it had on the sink far above.

The wall slid open in a similar manner to that of the Slytherin common room, revealing an opening that led to a very large chamber full of countless pillars, each engraved with more and more serpents. He cast another quiet _Homenum Revelio_ , and then after a moment of thought just a simple _Revelio_. Nothing, at least not within the room.

He slowly paced the circumference of the chamber, finding one wall that was covered in pipe entrances, one wall that bore another carving of entwined snakes like the ones he’d just passed, and at the far end of the room a tall, thirty-foot statue of a wizened man with a long beard.

Giving the statue a speculative glance he returned to the engraved wall and hissed another order for it to open, and stepped through to a stone spiral staircase. A quick spell revealed that it ascended a bit farther than the distance that he’d travelled to end up in this place, so he took a step back to the large chamber to finish investigating it first.

There was nothing else of note, other than the statue.

“John, are you all right?” he asked quietly, feeling the waves of nervous energy emanating from his companion.

 _Not really,_ was the tiny response.

Tom swallowed painfully. He sounded as upset as he had about Mulciber the prior Christmas. Possibly more upset.

But, they’d discussed it, and he had said that he understood Tom, and that he just wanted Tom to be careful.

So, taking a deep breath and steeling himself, he called out, _“Open.”_

And nothing happened.

Tom let out his breath in a heavy exhale, rolling his eyes at himself. Well, just because three of the openings had been sealed in a daft way didn’t mean they all were.

Not really having very much to go on he considered, then said, _“Slytherin.”_

And then he rolled his eyes again, this time at his house’s founder, as that attempt had activated the statue. The carved mouth widened, growing larger and larger, as a greenish glow emanated from it to slowly fill the chamber with a sickly light.

Then there was a sound, no longer the grinding of stone, but a soft, sliding sound. And then—

_“Master? Is that my Master? Have you woken me after my slumber?”_

_Tom! Close your eyes now!_

And he did, without any hint of hesitation.

 _“Who is there?”_ he called out toward the voice that had spoken.

The sliding sound grew louder as the snake—for it had to be a snake, surely—approached, and then Tom gripped his wand hard when he felt the air move gently against his face, and then a fluttering sensation over his robes.

_“You are not my master. But you smell of him. You are my master’s kin. Have you come to let me feed on the unworthy, my new Master?”_

And then John’s words caught up to him as he realised that the fluttering was the snake’s tongue, scenting him, and that it was _massive_ , and that his eyes were closed right now, and that had to mean—

He was fairly certain his palm was cut now from where his wand was digging into his skin.

 _“What do you mean when you say ‘the unworthy?’”_ he temporised, trying to come to grips with the fact that he was mere inches from a giant basilisk.

_“Those of unclean blood. Those who sullied my Master’s home with their impurity. I am yours to command, my new Master, and I have not eaten in so long. I am so hungry.”_

Tom took a shuddering breath, held it for a moment, then released it. _“No. You are not to feed on anyone, whether they have pure or impure blood. You will not eat any student, or any other person in the castle, or on its grounds.”_

_“My new Master’s will is mine. I am awake now. Where shall I feed?”_

Tom cast his mind about, wishing nothing more than to turn back time and never open that sink, so he asked, _“Can you go back to sleep?”_

_“Only my Master could give me a long slumber. I have been awoken. And I must eat.”_

_“Then you will hunt only in the depths of the forest, if you can go there without endangering humans. Or you can feed in the lake, if you can travel there through the pipes.”_

_“As my new Master wills it,”_ it hissed, then slithered off.

Once the chamber was completely silent once again Tom cast a silent _Revelio_ , not opening his eyes. When he didn’t sense anything in his vicinity he opened them, then staggered toward the spiral staircase, clutching at the wall once he reached it.

“I’m sorry, John. I’m sorry. This was stupid. I’m so sorry,” he rambled, climbing round and round, gasping at both the ascent and his racing pulse.

_Just get yourself out of there. We’ll talk later._

It felt like it took him a year but he finally reached the top of the steps, where there was a small room and another snake-engraved wall. Hissing a final order a section of wall folded outward and he stumbled through, aware of it sealing shut again behind him. Having no hope of steadying his breaths he took a quick look around.

He seemed to be in a corridor on the fifth floor, a few turns away from the prefects’ bathroom, and he had just emerged from a portrait labelled Corvinus Gaunt.

He stared.

And then he decided he didn’t have the mental fortitude to deal with _that_ right then and so he made his way down to the dungeons, making liberal use of hidden passageways to hasten his travel and avoid interactions with other students.

When he arrived in the common room he spotted the boys gathered near the hearth, and Tancred must have seen something in his face from the other side of the common room as he immediately rose, said something to the others, and then followed Tom back to the dormitory. Once the door was shut the boy took a seat and pinned him with those concerned eyes.

Tom let himself fall to his own bed in a heap and said, “I didn’t end up needing the pendant. Thank you, though, for being there in case I did.”

“You look like whatever you were doing, it didn’t go well,” Tancred offered, sounding cautious.

He just shook his head, the let out a bark of laughter. “It really didn’t.” Then he ran a hand over his face, trying to get his scrambled thoughts under control. “I don’t think I’ll be carrying on with that particular activity, so I don’t think you’ll need to worry about being needed for an emergency in the future.”

There was just silence from the other boy, and when Tom glanced over he was frowning. “I’d like to help you, if you’ll let me,” he finally said.

Tom bit his lip, feeling guilty, and looked away while he tried to think of a way of saying no without sounding dismissive. “I appreciate the offer, truly, but it’s settled now. Whether I have help or not, it doesn’t change that.”

Tancred seemed to hesitate, then he sighed and nodded. “If you change your mind, Tom, I’m here.” And after giving him an odd look he left the room.

Tom flopped back on his blankets, still trying to steady his breathing. A few minutes later he snapped the curtains shut and plunged into the journal.

John was there immediately when he got there, with his arms open, and not even thinking about what he was doing Tom was striding forward into them to cling to the other boy, everything shaking.

He didn’t know how much time passed, he only knew that he felt warm, safe, within that embrace. Eventually his shaking subsided, and he felt a wave of exhaustion sweep through him, causing him to stumble slightly.

“Hey. Here’s, it’s all right. You’re all right,” the other boy was saying, as he continued to support Tom while manoeuvring a chair under him. Once Tom was seated he hooked the other chair with an ankle and dragged it over so that he was sitting next to Tom.

“I—” Tom started, then stopped as his voice trembled. He took a few slow breaths, then tried again. “I _am_ sorry. You were right to warn me—a basilisk!” Then he shook his head. “You keep warning me about things, and you’re always right. _Why_ can’t I just listen.”

John’s hand was on his arm, and its weight and warmth helped to steady him, acting as an anchor. “I don’t blame you; I was never good at listening to warnings either. It’s a crazy thing. I know it is.”

Tom focused on his breathing for a few more long minutes while his companion sat there calmly, letting him take his time. Finally he said, “I’m not going back down there. I won’t. Even if Slytherin left something behind there’s no reason to go looking for it. Any person who leaves a basilisk in a school is not a person I wish to understand.”

The hand on his arm gave a gentle squeeze. “All right.”

“I won’t let it hurt anyone,” he continued, knowing that his voice was rising, but he needed to finish saying this. “I won’t. And if it does, if anyone gets hurt, I’ll—I’ll—” His fingers were digging into the arms of the chair. “Two words. Two words that I’ve cast too many times on rats. I’ll have to do it.”

The hand tightened its grip on his arm again, less gently this time, though it wasn’t painful. Perhaps the gesture was made in shock more than anything. Then, a few beats later, it relaxed.

“I understand,” John said softly.

And they sat there together in the memory room for a long while, until Tom’s breathing had finally returned to normal, and his heart rate was steady, and he felt that he could face the world. John sat next to him through it all.

* * *

The next morning Tom rose early to pack, still feeling hollow. He was just finishing when the other boys started to stir, and some time later they were on their way to breakfast.

“I still can’t believe you left packing so late,” Rhys said as they sat at the Slytherin table. “You all give me such a hard time!”

“Yes, but I don’t leave my things absolutely everywhere,” Tom pointed out, selecting a light breakfast for himself. He still felt a bit shaky. “I’m what’s known as tidy. It took me hardly ten minutes.”

The other boy made a face and then focused on his breakfast. Their otherwise silent breakfast was interrupted ten minutes later by Gamp wandering over on her way to her usual spot at the Ravenclaw table.

“I have a meeting with Kettleburn first thing. Did you want to meet after?” she asked Alexius, then turned to the rest of their group and added, “Good morning.”

“Ah, yes, how about the entrance hall, at eleven?” They exchanged a few more words before she turned away and Tom saw his friends exchanging speculative looks.

“Eleven?” Rayner asked once Gamp was sitting at her own table. “You’re not going home?”

“No,” he replied, frowning slightly. “Did I not mention it? I’ll be spending the holiday here with Agatha.”

Rhys was moodily stabbing at a rasher while Tancred said mildly, “That sounds nice.”

“Well yes, I do hope it will be,” Alexius replied. “My father was disappointed, of course, but he will simply have to amuse himself with additional festivities with other families instead of our usual habits.

He did not accompany the group a little while later up to the station.

When they climbed onto the train Tom set off with Ellis and two of the Gryffindor prefects to complete the first hour of patrols. His house mate was decent enough company on prefect rounds as she was sharp, and incredibly observant, usually the first to note the quiet sounds of students trying to hide after curfew, but she had an apparent lack of a sense of humour so his rounds with her were always rather serious.

An hour later Tom was just wishing her a good holiday when his friends’ compartment door slid open and Rayner ducked into the corridor.

“Hello, Ellis,” he greeted. “I was hoping to speak with you about Chess Club, if you’re done patrolling?”

The two of them set off while Tom took a seat within the compartment. He looked at the other two boys, noting Tancred was watching the countryside hurtling by while Rhys was scowling. Tom raised a brow at the latter.

“It’s nothing,” Rhys grumbled, so Tom just shrugged and pulled out a book.

Five minutes later there was an explosive sigh and he looked up in surprise.

“It’s not nothing,” Rhys said, his scowl still present. “Everyone is off falling in _love_ and I _hate it_.”

Tom blinked a few times. While he was still processing that Tancred rose, quietly excused himself, and left the compartment.

“What’s wrong with caring about someone?” he asked, confused by just how much it was irritating the boy.

“It shouldn’t make you completely ignore everyone else who cares about you!” he exclaimed.

Tom frowned. “I understand that Alexius has been quite absent, but I don’t know about ‘everyone.’”

“Ray has been pining after Ellis all year,” Rhys stated, giving him a flat look. “I don’t know that she’ll ever go for him since she’s a seventh year, but still. And Tancred—” he flapped a hand vaguely, indicating some meaning which Tom didn’t understand “—and then you.” Then he let out a huff of frustration.

Tom’s frowned deepened. “Pardon? What’s that about me?”

“Well, you haven’t chosen anyone yet, but it’s just a matter of time, isn’t it? They all can’t stop looking at you, and _giggling_.”

Tom blinked, nonplussed. “I have no idea what you’re on about. Really.”

Then it was Rhys’s turn to blink. “Really? You hadn’t noticed them?” Then he scowled again. “Well, great. I’ve just told you that everything thinks you’re the best thing with your charm and your clever brain and your pretty face that you’re going to find yourself someone now, and I’ll be completely alone.”

He shook his head. “I highly doubt that’s going to happen. Is that why you’ve been so upset? Because you think we’re all going to abandon you?”

“It’s already started to happen,” Rhys bit out. “I’ve known Alex my whole life. I’ve always thought of him as a brother. A pompous, annoying, _selfish_ brother who only cares about _snogging_ —”

“Does he know he’s upsetting you?”

“Yes,” the other boy spat in a bitter tone. “And do you know what he said? He called me immature, and said that one day once I ‘grew up’ I’d finally understand.”

Tom could feel John bristling in the back of his mind, and he agreed with the sentiment. “That’s entirely uncalled for. Do you want me to say something to him? If this is happening with the others too and I just hadn’t noticed, it might be worth having a meeting once we’re all back at Hogwarts.”

Rhys grimaced. “Maybe.” Then he squinted at Tom. “You _really_ don’t see it?”

Tom shrugged. “Apparently not. Mind you, they’re all going to be fairly disappointed when I don’t immediately go reciprocating that attention.” Then he considered the amount of trust it would take for him to even consider opening up to a person like that, and shuddered. “No, definitely not. I care for all of you as close friends but I don’t think I could trust anyone at Hogwarts enough to be that close to them. Whether they had a pretty face or not,” he added with a small smile toward his friend.

Rhys looked hopeful. “So—wait, no one at Hogwarts?” Tom shook his head. He saw Rhys glance toward the compartment door and then back, and then he seemed to relax slightly. “Oh, that’s reassuring. I mean, I understand that apparently loads of people like to—you know, but I just don’t see the appeal. What’s wrong with what we have already? What’s wrong with strong, lasting friendships? Why just throw that away? I don’t know if anyone else understands that, but thanks, Tom. Sorry for jumping on you, it’s just been on my mind for a while.”

“I’ve noticed,” Tom said drily, and his smile widened when his fried seemed to relax further.

“You know that means I’ll probably need you for a chess partner, if Ray does figure things out with Ellis, right? Actually, let’s get a set out and make sure you can play,” he stated authoritatively, and other than some creasing on his forehead he appeared to have left behind his earlier upset.

Much of the rest of the train ride was spent over that chess board, Rhys teaching Tom about different strategies as he’d only ever watched his dorm mates play previously, and when Tancred and finally Rayner returned they were both quiet.

* * *

After disembarking from the train and saying their farewells Rayner led Tom over to a couple. The man looked vaguely familiar to Tom, as he pulled Rayner in for a sideways hug, while the woman was unfamiliar except for the resemblance between her and her son.

“This must be Tom!” she said cheerily after giving Rayner a kiss on the cheek. “It is good to meet you,” she said warmly.

“I hear you have quite the budding interest in international affairs,” said Mr Avery, and then he smiled broadly. “I do hope you learn a few things during the next two weeks! Now, anyone else you need to speak with before we’re off?”

Both boys shook their heads and each adult took one of their arms, and an instant later Tom felt his first Apparition.

It was . . . a bit unsettling.

“Now, this is the house,” Mrs Avery said as he got his bearings. “We’ll be staying here for a few days so that you can focus on your school work, and then we have an appointment at the Portkey Office at the Ministry on Monday morning. Rayner, do you mind showing your friend around? Take your time getting settled, we’ll see you both at dinner.”

Tom was given a tour of the home, which appeared to be a townhouse given the narrow floors, very tall staircase, and view of the street through the front-facing windows. There were moving photographs on many walls showing the three of them in many exotic locations, some desert, some towering jungles, and more.

As he caught sight of the back garden and saw that it seemed to extend for much farther than it should, Tom asked, “Is this a magical neighbourhood?”

Rayner gave a small shrug. “Sort of. This is Hove Park. I believe the muggles think it’s some sort of recreational space, but there are a dozen or so homes here that they can’t see.” Then he frowned in thought and added, “We’re not far from Brighton, if you know where that is?”

Tom nodded, recalling the seaside town south of London.

They continued through the house, his friend identifying the various rooms as he spoke more about the area. “You can see one of Hove Park’s warding stones nearby, if you were interested because of your Runes class. The muggles have dug it up and put it on display; they think it’s a druid stone or a lost piece of Stonehenge, or something. There’s a decent herbologist’s shop in Hove proper, and magizoologists like to travel to this area when they’re studying marine creatures, but otherwise things are fairly quiet around here.”

Tom then recalled that Brighton had been one of the areas hit by blitz attacks and wondered if Hove Park was aware, or if its residents had remained pleasantly oblivious.

Once the tour was complete Rayner left him in his room to relax for a bit and Tom immediately etched the tiny runes on the door frame. A few minutes later he sat on the bed, looking out the window to the dimly lit street below.

“All right so far,” he said quietly.

_Are you nervous?_

Tom considered, then shook his head. “No. I’m excited, actually. I’ve never been anywhere outside of Britain before.”

John seemed to hum, then replied, _Neither have I._

At about that time there was an odd scratching sound at the door. Frowning slightly he rose and opened it, and a fluffy spotted cat sauntered in. Curiously, it then paused at the engraving Tom had done, sniffed it closely, sneezed, then wandered over to jump onto the bed and curl up in a ball.

Tom shook his head to clear it after realising he’d been standing there staring at the cat for probably a minute, and shut the door to return to looking out the window, though this time sitting in a chair.

Deciding a few minutes later that he felt odd speaking to John with the cat there he opened up his trunk and dug out some of his school work, and started in on a Transfiguration essay about Partial Vanishment.

Some amount of time later there was a knock at the door, and Rayner stuck his head in after a moment. “We should make our way down to dinner now. Sal, what are you doing in here?”

Tom glanced over in time to see the cat give Rayner a narrow look, then seemingly deliberately draw its tufted tail over its eyes to feign sleep. He let a faint snort escape as he joined his friend outside the room.

“Its name is Sal?” he asked while they descended the long staircase.

“Short for Sally, now. Was short for Salazar, but then she ended up being female, and I was pretty obsessed with anything Slytherin when I was young so I wouldn’t let my parents change it,” the boy explained, and Tom couldn’t help his amused expression.

“She’s a kneazle,” his friend continued. “She guards the house while we’re away, these days. It seems to suit her just fine; I think she likes the house more than she likes us anyway.”

Dinner was a friendly affair, and the following day passed by in a flurry of assignments, essays, and reading. Before he knew it he was packed again and the family was gathered in the parlour, preparing to Floo to the Ministry.

“Now, Tom, International Portkeys can be an unpleasant thing the first time—” (“Every time,” Rayner interrupted) “—but just remember to keep your back straight, your knees slightly bent, and hold on tight. Here Mr Avery gave him a kind smile. “And if you lose your breakfast that’s quite all right, happens to the best of us at times.

Tom gave a slight grimace at that. But then he nodded, and they were shortly in the Ministry atrium, stopping by a desk to register their wands, then riding a magical lift to level six.

And he had the passing thought that now he knew why Diagon Alley always seemed so empty for a primary shopping hub. Every magical person in Britain seemed to be _here_.

It was crowded, and hectic, and everyone seemed to know each other, but finally they’d made it to an office with five separate queues and a waiting area full of mismatched chairs. They didn’t apparently need to queue however as within a minute a witch was leading them off to a brown door and handing them a pair of beermats, one brown and one black, both stained and bearing the name of some pub in Milnsbridge.

“Brown is to destination Belém Tower, Lisbon, departing in two minutes. Black will return you to the arrivals room—” here she pointed at a black door on a nearby wall “—at ten o’clock on January 1st. You will return the used Portkeys at the arrivals desk—” she pointed at one of the queues “—and any Portkeys not returned will incur a fine. If you have any issues with your Portkey while you are outside of the country you should seek assistance from the local Ministry. Safe travels.”

Then she opened the brown door, waited for them to walk through to the tiny room beyond, and then shut them inside.

“Everyone grab an edge and hold on,” Mrs Avery said, holding out the brown beermat while she tucked the black one away within her robes.

They stood there for the remainder of their wait, Tom with an excited and nervous sort of buzzing under his skin, and then as he heard a chime sound in the room there was a nauseating tugging sensation and then he was moving somewhere very very fast, then he was standing somewhere entirely different, the shock of impact reverberating in his knees.

The air was warm, and humid, and he could hear sea birds nearby.

As he got his bearings he found himself in a limestone room with a rib-vaulted ceiling, and arched openings on three walls revealed views of a vivid blue sea. The fourth wall bore a bronze sign flanked by two gargoyles:

**Welcome To Lisbon**   
_Belém Tower: International Arrivals_

1\. Empire Square: Travel Rotunda  
2\. Palace of Ajuda: Ministry Reception  
3\. Arch of History: Entrance  
4\. Alfama: Markets, Residences, Theatres  
5\. Order of Heironymites: Admissions Ward  
6\. Olisipo: Information Network (Restricted)

The information was repeated across four additional columns, each in a different language.

“We’re off to Alfama first,” Mr Avery said as he stepped toward the sign and tapped the engraved number 4 with his wand. The bronze plate sank into the stone and revealed a dark recession in the wall, which he then stepped into and vanished; upon receiving an encouraging look from Mrs Avery Tom followed, feeling a slightly dizzying sensation before emerging in a sun-dappled courtyard.

It was wide, and open, with a few tall statues of witches and wizards at the centre, clusters of wrought-iron tables and chairs along the perimeter, and was surrounded by blindingly white buildings topped by red clay roofs. And off to the right of the entrance, far past the line of buildings he could see the top of a crenellated wall, with towers, possibly a castle, in the distance.

“The residence shouldn’t be too far from here,” Rayner’s mother called and Tom snapped back to attention to realise that she and her son had stepped through while he was taking in the surroundings. He trailed after them, trying not to get too distracted by the smells wafting through the air from umbrella-topped food stalls, or the music drifting down from balconies above.

They were making their way down narrow alleys, some of them flat and some with a rather steep incline, and soon they were coming to a stop before a house with a bright blue door. After a knock and a brief wait an old woman was there greeting them.

“Welcome, welcome, you must be the Avery family. Please do come in,” she said in a throaty, lightly-accented voice.

They were ushered inside, Mr Avery murmuring a quiet, “Thank you, Madam Costa,” and in short order they found themselves in a cozy sunlit kitchen.

“The rooms have all been made up, and if you are needing anything simply leave a note in the basket on the mantle. Breakfast and dinner will be appearing for you at 7 o’clock and 8 o’clock respectively—you will be taking lunch elsewhere, correct?”

“Yes,” Mrs Avery agreed with a warm smile. “I thought we might explore a bit, and sample some of the local cuisine.”

“Very good, Miss, very good. There is a directory in the parlour if you are needing it, and the fire is connected to the Travel Rotunda.” She paused, then dipped her head at each of them before adding, “I will leave you to your visiting then, good day!” She then exited to the next room over, and a few seconds later there was a soft chiming sound.

“This is lovely,” Mr Avery said with a pleased expression. “Unfortunately I will need to be off to take care of some paperwork at the Ministry, so the day is yours, boys. If you can decide what you’d like to do in between the meetings you’ve set, Rayner, we can crack on with those starting tomorrow.”

A minute later the man had departed, with that same chiming sound coming from the other room. Mrs Avery had retrieved the directory that Madam Costa had mentioned, and they were reviewing their options.

“I’ve secured lunch meetings the next three days—well, we’re meeting them for lunch, but things could go well into the afternoon if they’re open to discussing matters—then nothing Friday as Christmas is a big affair here. We’ll have the weekend to ourselves—I thought we might hold off on seeing the shops until then, since the larger institutions will be closed on those days. And then next week I have one meeting secured on Tuesday, but nothing the other days, though I’m waiting on a letter back from one person who might be able to add something in on Thursday.”

Tom was looking through the directory, though there was so much listed he was finding it hard to absorb. Finally he looked up and asked them both, “What would you recommend?”

“Based on what my son has shared about you, I think you would quite like the National Library,” Mrs Avery replied. “It shouldn’t be any trouble to secure a visitor’s pass for you. Perhaps the National Museum of Magic also, as its facilities are adjacent. And of course there are any number of historic sites within the city, some dating back two thousand years, if you aren’t opposed to departing the magical areas.”

Tom blinked at the casual mention of muggle history, and he sensed a corresponding jolt at the back of his mind. Rayner also appeared surprised and was looking at his mother with his brows raised.

“Are the muggle and magical communities here integrated, then?” Tom asked.

She shook her head. “Not as such, though there is such a strong partnership between Salazar and the Ministry that many of the priorities of both societies are currently aligned. Therefore it seems a bit silly to ignore such a vast wealth of history.”

Tom had felt a chill sweep through him at the name, his mind cast immediately back to the Chamber, but it was Rayner who asked in a puzzled tone, “Salazar, Mother?”

She gave him an amused smile. “Yes, the muggle Prime Minister.”

The three of them spent another hour looking through the directory and planning out their stay, and then after changing into more muggle-appropriate clothing they ventured out into the streets to have lunch together in a small restaurant, the food something altogether different from anything Tom had tasted before. He and Rayner then spent the rest of the day exploring the winding alleys, climbing all the way up to the castle that overlooked the district.

While they were walking along its ancient walls Tom asked his friend, “How much do you know about this place?”

The boy gave a small shrug. “Not much on the muggle side, except that they’ve remained neutral in the war. And I didn’t know their Minister’s name but I had learned over the summer that he’s been working closely with certain members of the ICW, and maybe even getting help from us to keep the country neutral. I’m hoping we can learn a bit more from the meetings this week about what all we do for them, and how it’s permitted with the Statute.”

Tom considered. “I’m surprised you’re able to learn so much from these contacts you’ve spoken about. Aren’t they bound by privacy, or security, in their work? I would think that international diplomats would deal with sensitive information.”

Rayner pursed his lips, looking like he was deliberating the question. “I think that they shouldn’t be telling me as much as they have, to be honest. But the ones I’ve spoken to have been so shocked that a British wizard is showing an interest that they can’t help but boast about the projects they’re working on. They haven’t told me any particulars, of course, but as far as a general idea of their goals and efforts?” He then shrugged. “The ones I’ve spoken to have seemed proud of their work.”

_It’s interesting and . . . sad, I guess, that our country has that sort of reputation._

Tom couldn’t help but agree. They continued their walk, as John continued to mull something over.

_I suppose the reputation must change. I know that a British wizard ended up being the leader of the ICW, at least for some amount of time._

That felt like some encouragement, at least.

Unfortunately that bit of hope he had for his country was dashed as they progressed through the week, as Tom grew to learn just how understated Rayner’s comment about his contacts’ opinions of Britain had been. The first meeting had been with an intense woman who was a solicitor specialising in international law. She had given them both an impromptu lecture on jurisdictional boundaries, the apparent abundance of shortfalls in the British Wizengamot’s practice of magical law, and an overview of a few other nations’ legal councils and the differences between them. That had taken them through lunch, after which she seemed quite thrilled at their interest in the subject and answered questions about the types of cases that an international body might handle, and how it would work alongside a cooperative local ministry.

The next meeting was with an ancient witch who looked to be part goblin, based on her stature and facial structure, who apparently was a secretary within the muggle ministry in her retirement. Tom had blinked a bit at that, but she was happy to reveal that hidden within Lisbon was the core of an international espionage guild that was working to dismantle the ongoing muggle war, with some subtle pushes from the magical side.

And Tom had blinked a _lot_ at that.

The next two meetings were with a squib and a witch their age who both apparently had various dealings with organisations that were sneaking refugees into Portugal—many through the Belém Tower arrivals area where Tom and the Averys had arrived, though they didn’t necessarily remember the details once they were through.

Tom had asked Rayner how he had _found_ these people. His friend had seemed just as bewildered at the wealth of information they’d been given.

Between meetings with these mysterious contacts they visited historical sites, wandered the old city streets, and in Tom’s case, spent plenty of time in the Library & Archives within the Hall of Ingenuity of the Arch of History. The Museum that was housed within the Hall of Glory had been fascinating, but while an artifact could be interesting to admire and learn about, there was a universe of knowledge within the library just demanding to be consumed. It was easily the size of eight of Hogwarts’ Quidditch pitches, and that wasn’t including the restricted wings that Tom wasn’t able to access.

Partway through the second week of the break Tom managed to get away from the Averys for a whole day, and spent the time within the library looking for information on the two topics he’d been unable to continue researching at Hogwarts without arousing suspicion: mental links, and making a body for John.

It didn’t take much time for him to hit another wall with the latter, learning fairly quickly that he would need to delve into necromancy, which he wasn’t prepared to consider yet, or somehow gain access to a Philosopher’s Stone. As for the former, however. . . .

It was late afternoon when he was tucked away in a private study room, the warm golden light of a lantern casting long shadows on the table where he was surrounded by tall stacks of books.

“There are rituals, apparently, that can bond two people together so that they may communicate mentally,” Tom shared, reading from a tome on advanced mental arts. “I don’t think that’s quite right though, since this doesn’t say anything about sensing emotions and I can definitely feel yours, and besides, I don’t recall ever doing a ritual that involved maintaining a Legilimency link for twenty-four hours.”

 _I think we would have noticed,_ John agreed, amusement present in his tone.

“Or some familiars can create a mental bond, though those tend to be very specific magical creatures like, oh, a phoenix, for instance. John, are you a phoenix?” Tom asked, smirking.

_Pretty sure I’m not, no._

“Some Seers claim to be able to glean the thoughts of others from a different time,” Tom continued, flipping through another book. He frowned. “I don’t think Visconti’s covered that yet, but then his specialty is liquid media.”

_The odds of one of us being a Seer is slim. The odds of both of us being Seers, and having simultaneous visions about each other’s thoughts. . . ._

“Unlikely,” Tom said with a huff. “There’s really nothing here with the mind. Unless it’s something experimental, but anything of the sort has generally ended with the experimenter, or the test subject, or both, permanently damaged or dead.”

Then he hesitated, not liking what he was about to say next. John seemed to sense that and remained silent.

“This summer, after I did that ritual, you mentioned things felt . . . looser?” he asked hesitantly.

A pause, then, _Yes_.

“The ritual was only supposed to affect the soul. So what if you’re a soul?”

Another pause, one full of shifting, and thinking, and probably frowning if Tom could see his companion’s face.

“What if—” then he stopped, trying to think of how to phrase things. “A soul can be removed from a body, right? They’re all, well, not great methods, but a Dementor does it, as does the process for making a phylactery, or a Horcrux.”

John felt quite unsettled then, with more shifting, then he grew still. _I’d like to stop looking into this now, please,_ he finally said quietly.

Tom’s eyebrows skittered upward. “Are you certain? I can keep researching, I’m not exactly an expert, so I probably haven’t found everything—”

_Please leave it. I—I need to think about a few things._

He bit his lip. John didn’t sound _upset_ with him, not exactly, but at the same time he definitely didn’t sound like he was okay.

_Really, it’s fine. I just need to process something. I think I’ve just realised something, and—well, it makes sense, but I don’t know how to think about it. I’m just—I just need to think._

Tom nodded, feeling concerned, but after John didn’t say anything further he tidied up the room and started to head back to the guest house for the night.

All too soon it was Friday, January 1st and he and the family were taking the Portkey back to London. He was almost see the light dusting of snow that was present in the back garden of the Averys’ home.

That afternoon he was wandering Hove Park with Rayner, letting his friend show him the local sights—including the fenced-off ‘Goldstone,’ as the muggles had apparently named the discovered warding stone—when Rayner asked, “I hope you got what you wanted out of the trip?”

Tom didn’t even hesitate before nodding. “Yes, absolutely. I will say I’m incredibly envious of the opportunities you have with your family, if you meet those type of people on all of your travels. And Lisbon was beautiful.”

The other boy gave him a small smile. “I’m glad it was productive for you. I will say I’ve been particularly interested in magical law since my first meetings over the summer, and speaking with Madam Ramires just enforced that. I might like to study that further after Hogwarts.”

Tom found that he wasn’t surprised by that; Rayner was observant, meticulous, and an excellent strategist. “I think you’d do well,” he offered, and the boy’s smile widened.

“Thank you. And yourself? Any thoughts beyond Hogwarts, other than fixing the world?” he asked, a teasing quirk to the side of his mouth.

Tom huffed, and thought about the question. “Honestly? I can’t imagine I’ll ever stop wanting to learn more. If I could go on studying magic for my entire life, I might do that. A career academic.”

His friend leaned to the side and bumped their shoulders as he said, “I think you’d do well.”

He laughed, and he felt a supportive warmth in the back of his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The booklet given to Tom is _The Mass Extermination of Jews in German Occupied Poland._
> 
> It includes an address made by the Polish Government to the Governments of the United Nations in London on December 10, 1942; the text of Joint Declaration made on December 17, 1942 (by the Governments of Belgium, Czechoslovakia, Greece, Luxembourg, the Netherlands, Norway, Poland, the United States of America, the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, the Union of Socialist Soviet Republics, and Yugoslavia, and by the French National Committee); an extract of a statement made by the Deputy Prime Minister of Poland on November 27, 1942 along with the text of the resolution made by the Polish National Council at that meeting; and the text of a broadcast by the Polish Acting Minister for Foreign Affairs and Ambassador to the Court of St. James, made December 17, 1942.
> 
> The text was released internationally on December 17, 1942, appearing in major newspapers worldwide.
> 
> As of the time that I’ve posted this chapter, a copy of the publication in its entirety can be accessed on Archive.org.
> 
> —
> 
> On a less depressing topic, I’ve taken a bunch of history about Lisbon and . . . twisted it, a little. Yes, the Portuguese Prime Minister at the time really was named Salazar. (His full name was António de Oliveira Salazar.) He focused huge efforts in maintaining strict neutrality throughout WWII; one result of this was that it became a haven for refugees (for those who were fortunate to make it that far), and it was also a hub for espionage (a neutral stance toward espionage was maintained as long as it didn’t infringe on Portuguese internal policies).


End file.
